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ROBERT  HICHENS 


- 


BYE-WAYS 


BYE-WAYS 


BY 

ROBERT  S.  HICHENS 

Author  of  "The  Garden  of  Allah," 
"Bella  Donna,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1914 


f 


Copyright,  1897, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 


Contents 


PAGE 

THE  CHARMER  OF  SNAKES 3 

A  TRIBUTE  OF  SOULS 

Prelude 89 

I.    The  Stranger  by  the  Burn 90 

II.    The  Soul  of  Dr  Wedderburn  .      .      .      .  1 1 1 

III.  The  Soul  of  Kate  Walters       .      .     .      .  131 

IV.  The  Soul  of  Hugh  Fraser 142 

V.    The  Return  of  the  Grey  Traveller     .      .  I  59 
Written  in  conjunction  with  Lord  Frederick  Hamilton. 

AN  ECHO  IN  EGYPT 1 7 l 

THE  FACE  OF  THE  MONK 211 

THE  MAN  WHO  INTERVENED 237 

AFTER  TO-MORROW 267 

A  SILENT  GUARDIAN 287 

A  BOUDOIR  BOY 3*9 

THE  TEE-TO-TUM 343 


2229202 


THE    CHARMER   OF   SNAKES 


BYE-WAYS 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES 


THE  petulant  whining  of  the  jackals  prevented 
Renfrew  from  sleeping.  At  first  he  lay  still  on  his 
camp  bed,  staring  at  the  orifice  of  the  bell  tent, 
which  was  only  partially  covered  by  the  canvas  flap 
let  down  by  Mohammed,  after  he  had  bidden  his 
master  good-night.  Behind  the  tent  the  fettered 
mules  stamped  on  the  rough,  dry  ground,  and  now 
and  then  the  heavy  rustling  of  a  wild  boar  could 
be  heard,  as  it  shuffled  through  the  scrub  towards 
the  water  that  lay  in  the  hollow  beyond  the  camp. 
The  wayward  songs  of  the  Moorish  attendants  had 
died  into  silence.  They  slept,  huddled  together 
and  shrouded  in  their  djelabes.  But  their  wailing 
rapture  of  those  old  triumphant  days  when  on 
the  heights  above  Granada,  beneath  the  eternal 
snows,  their  brethren  walked  as  conquerors,  had 
been  succeeded  by  the  cries  of  the  uneasy  beasts 
that  throng  the  mountains  between  Tangier  and 
Tetuan.  And  Renfrew  said  to  himself  that  the 
jackals  kept  him  from  sleeping.  He  lay  still  and 


4  BYE-WAYS 

wondered  if  Claire  were  awake  in  her  tent  close 
by.  If  so,  if  her  dark  eyes  were  unclouded,  what 
journeys  must  her  imagination  be  making  !  She 
was  so  sensitive  to  sound  of  any  kind.  A  cry 
moved  her  sometimes  with  a  swift  violence  that 
alarmed  those  around  her.  The  message  of  a 
note  of  music  shut  one  door  on  her  soul,  opened 
another,  and  let  her  in  to  strange  regions  in  which 
she  chose  to  be  lonely. 

How  amazing  it  was  to  think  that  Claire,  with 
all  her  serpentine  beauty,  all  her  celebrity,  all  the 
legends  that  clung  to  her  fame,  all  the  wild  caprices 
of  which  two  worlds  had  talked  for  years,  —  that 
Claire  was  hidden  away  three  feet  off,  beneath  the 
canvas  shield  that  looked  like  a  moderate-sized 
mushroom  from  the  Kasbar  on  the  hill.  How 
amazing  to  think  she  was  no  longer  Claire  Duvigne, 
but  Claire  Renfrew.  Her  cheated  audiences  sighed 
in  London  in  which  a  week  ago  she  was  acting. 
And  while  they  sighed,  she  slept  in  this  wild 
valley  of  Morocco,  or  lay  awake  and  heard  the 
jackals  whining  among  the  dwarf  palms.  And  she 
was  his.  She  belonged  to  him.  He  had  the  right 
to  hold  her  —  this  thin,  pale  wonder  of  night  and  of 
fame  —  in  his  arms,  and  to  kiss  the  lips  from  which 
came  at  will  the  coo  of  a  dove  or  the  snarl  of  a 
tigress.  Although  Renfrew  could  not  sleep,  he  fell 
into  a  dream.  Indeed,  ever  since  he  had  married 
Claire,  a  week  ago,  his  life  had  been  a  dream. 
When  the  goddess  suddenly  bends  down  to  the 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES         5 

worshipper,  and  says  :  "  Don't  pray  to  me  any 
more  —  sit  on  my  throne  by  my  side  !  "  —  the 
worshipper  exchanges  one  form  of  devotion  for 
another,  so  deep  and  so  different  that  for  a  while 
his  ordinary  faculties  seem  frozen,  his  life  goes  in 
shadowy  places.  Renfrew  was  not  a  man  of  deep 
imagination,  but  he  had  enough  of  the  dangerous 
and  dear  quality  to  make  him  full  of  interest  in 
Claire's  bonfires  of  the  mind.  He  sunned  him- 
self in  the  sparks  which  flew  from  her,  even  as 
the  phlegmatic  man  in  the  pit  bathes  in  the  fury 
of  some  queen  of  the  stage.  He  adored  partly 
because  he  scarcely  understood. 

And  then,  at  this  moment,  he  was  in  the  throes 
of  a  most  unexpected  honeymoon.  Claire,  after 
refusing  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him  for  two 
years  or  more,  had  suddenly  married  him  in  such  a 
hurry  that,  though  London  gasped,  Renfrew  gasped 
still  more.  She  had  sent  for  him  one  night,  from 
her  dressing-room,  between  the  third  act  and  the 
fourth  of  an  angry  drama  of  passion.  He  came 
in  and  found  her  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  by  a 
table,  on  which  lay  a  note  containing  his  last  pro- 
posal, and  a  dagger  with  which  she  was  about  to 
commit  a  stage  murder  that  had  carried  her  glory 
to  the  four  quarters  of  the  universe.  Her  face 
was  covered  with  powder,  and  in  her  long  white 
dress  she  looked  like  a  phantom.  As  she  spoke 
to  him,  she  ran  her  thin  fingers  mechanically  up 
and  down  the  blade  of  the  dagger.  When  Renfrew 


6  BYE-WAYS 

was  in  the  room,  and  the  door  shut,  she  looked 
up  at  him  and  said  :  — 

"  Desmond,  I  'm  going  to  frighten  you  more 
than  I  shall  frighten  the  audience  out  there." 

And  she  pointed  towards  the  hidden  stage. 

"  How  ? "  he  said,  looking  at  her  hand  and  at 
the  dagger. 

"  I  'm  going  to  marry  you." 

Renfrew  turned  paler  than  she  was. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  cried.     "  You  go  white  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  he  murmured.  "  But  —  but  I  can't 
believe  it." 

"I  will  marry  you  when  you  like,  to-morrow, 
whenever  you  can  get  a  licence." 

"Oh,  Claire!" 

Suddenly  she  got  up. 

u  Take  me  away  from  here,"  she  said.  "  From 
this  heat  and  noise.  Take  me  to  some  place  where 
it  is  wild  and  desolate.  I  want  to  be  in  starlight, 
with  people  who  know  nothing  of  me,  and  my 
trumpery  talent.  O  God,  Desmond,  you  don't 
know  how  a  woman  can  get  to  hate  being 
famous !  I  should  like  to  act  to-night  to  a  circle 
of  savages  who  had  never  heard  of  me  and  of  my 
glory." 

"Curtain's  up  !  "   sang  a  shrill  voice  outside. 

Claire  picked  up  the  dagger. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said.     "  Shall  it  be  —  ? " 

"  Ah,  yes  —  yes !  "  Renfrew  answered  in  a 
choked  voice. 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES         7 

She  smiled  and  glided  out,  like  a  white  snake,  he 
thought. 

And  now  —  yes,  those  were  really  jackals  whin- 
ing, and  Claire  slept,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of 
Moors  under  the  stars  of  Morocco. 

Renfrew  trembled  at  the  astounding  surprises  of 
life.  Now  the  devil  of  the  night  —  thought  —  had 
filled  his  veins  with  fever.  He  got  up  softly,  drew 
on  his  clothes,  unfastened  the  canvas  flap,  and 
emerged,  like  a  shadow,  from  the  mouth  of  the 
tent.  The  night  was  dewy  and  cool.  All  the 
heaven  was  full  of  eyes.  The  line  of  tethered 
mules  looked  like  a  black  hedge  in  whose  shelter 
the  group  of  tents  was  pitched.  A  low  fire,  held  in 
a  cup  of  earth,  was  dying  down  in  the  distance,  and 
as  Renfrew  came  out  a  lanky  dog  slunk  off  among 
the  bushes  that  clothed  the  low  hills  on  every  side. 

Renfrew  stood  quite  still.  He  was  bare-headed, 
and  the  breeze  caught  at  his  thick  brown  hair,  and 
seemed  to  tug  it  like  a  rough  child  at  play  with  a 
kindly  elder.  His  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
tiny  peaked  tent  which  shrouded  Claire.  A  small 
moon  half  way  up  the  sky  sent  out  a  beam  which 
faintly  illuminated  this  home  of  a  wanderer,  and 
Renfrew  thought  the  beam  was  like  a  silver  finger 
pointing  at  this  wonderful  creature  whom  glory  had 
so  long  attended.  Such  beings  must  walk  in  light. 
Nature  herself  protests  against  their  endeavours  to 
shroud  themselves  even  for  a  moment  in  darkness. 
He  drew  close  to  the  tent,  and  listened  for  Claire's 


8  BYE-WAYS 

low  breathing.  But  he  could  not  hear  it.  Per- 
haps she  was  awake  then. 

"  Claire !  "  he  called,  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  no  answer.  Renfrew  hesitated  and 
glanced  round  the  little  camp.  It  was  just  then 
that  he  noticed  the  absence  of  two  figures  which 
had  been  standing  like  statues  near  his  tent  when  he 
went  to  bed.  These  were  soldiers  sent  from  the 
nearest  village  to  guard  the  camp  from  marauders 
during  the  night.  Clad  in  earth-coloured  rags, 
shrouded  in  loose  robes  that  looked  like  musty 
dressing-gowns,  with  fez  on  head,  and  musket  in 
hand,  they  had  seemed  devoutly  intent  on  doing 
their  duty  then.  But  now  —  where  were  they  ? 
Renfrew  strolled  among  the  tents,  expecting  to 
find  them  squatting  near  the  fire  smoking  cigar- 
ettes, or  playing  some  Spanish  game  of  cards.  But 
they  had  vanished.  He  returned,  and  posted  him- 
self again  by  the  door  of  Claire's  rude  bed-room, 
saying  to  himself  that  he  would  be  her  guard. 
Those  Moorish  vagabonds  had  deserted  her.  They 
cared  nothing  for  the  safety  of  this  jewel,  whom 
the  whole  civilised  world  cherished.  But  in  his 
heart  glowed  a  passion  of  protection  for  her.  And 
then  he  gazed  again  at  the  impenetrable  canvas 
wall  that  divided  him  from  her.  Only  two  hours 
ago  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips, 
yet  already  he  felt  as  if  a  river  of  years  flowed 
between  them.  He  began  to  torture  himself  delib- 
erately, as  lovers  will,  by  the  imagination  of  non- 


THE    CHARMER   OF   SNAKES         9 

existent  evils.  Suppose  Claire  possessed  the  power 
of  a  fairy,  and  could  evaporate  at  will  into  the 
spaces  of  the  air,  leaving  no  trace  behind.  She 
might  then  have  departed,  have  faded  into  the 
scented  silence  and  darkness  of  this  land  so  strange 
and  desolate.  Renfrew  supposed  the  departure  an 
actual  fact.  What  a  loneliness  would  fill  his  night 
then  ;  if  that  little  tent  stood  empty,  if  that  slim 
sleeper  were  removed  from  the  camp  round  which 
the  jackals  sat  on  their  tiny  haunches,  whining  like 
peevish  spirits.  He  trembled  beneath  the  weight 
of  this  absurd  supposition,  revelling  in  the  intoler- 
able with  the  folly  of  worship.  Gradually  he  forced 
himself  on  step  by  step  along  the  fanciful  path  till 
he  had  assured  his  imagination  that  Claire  was 
really  gone,  and  that  he  was  just  such  a  travelling 
Englishman  as  may  come  alone  across  the  Straits, 
take  out  a  camp,  and  spend  his  days  in  stalking 
wild  boar,  or  shooting  duck,  his  nights  in  the  heavy 
slumber  of  complete  weariness.  And,  at  length, 
having  gained  a  ghastly  summit  of  imaginative 
despair,  he  suddenly  stretched  forth  his  hand,  un- 
hooked the  canvas  that  shrouded  Claire's  tent  door, 
and  peeped  cautiously  in,  courting  the  delicious 
revulsion  of  feeling  which  he  would  secure  when 
he  saw  her  half  defined  form  in  the  shadow  of  the 
leaning  roof  that  hid  her  from  the  stars. 

He  bent  forward  with  greedy  anxiety.  But  the 
pale  and  tragic  face  he  looked  for,  did  not  greet  his 
eyes.  The  tent  was  empty. 


io  BYE-WAYS 

Renfrew  stood  for  a  moment  holding  back  the 
canvas  flap  with  one  hand.  This  denial  calmly 
offered  to  his  expectation  bewildered  him.  He 
was  confused,  and  for  a  moment  scarcely  thought 
at  all.  Then  his  mind  broke  away  with  the 
violence  of  a  dog  unleashed,  and  ran  a  wild  course 
of  surmises.  He  thought  first  of  rousing  the 
camp  and  organising  an  immediate  search.  Then 
he  remembered  the  absence  of  the  two  soldiers 
who  ought  to  be  guarding  the  tents  and  the 
mules.  Claire  gone,  those  soldiers  absent !  He 
linked  the  two  facts  together,  and  turned  white 
and  sick.  But  he  did  not  rouse  the  camp.  In- 
deed, he  thanked  God  that  all  the  men  were  sleep- 
ing. He  sprang  softly  back  from  the  tent,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  stole  out  of  the  camp  so  silently 
that  he  scarcely  seemed  a  living  thing.  The 
ground  towards  the  water  was  boggy  and  spongy, 
and  the  scent  of  the  thickly  growing  myrtles  was 
heavy  in  the  air.  Renfrew  brushed  through  them 
swiftly.  He  heard  the  harsh  snuffling  of  a  boar, 
and  the  tread  of  its  feet  in  the  mud  at  the  water- 
side. And  these  sounds  filled  the  night  with  a 
sense  of  unknown  dangers.  Darkness,  a  wild 
country,  wild  men,  wild  beasts,  and  his  beautiful 
Claire  out  somewhere  alone,  near  him,  perhaps, 
yet  hidden  behind  the  impenetrable  veil  of  dark- 
ness. He  saw  her  fainting,  struggling,  crying  out 
for  him.  He  saw  her  silent  and  dead,  and 
frenzy  seized  him.  She  was  not  here  by  the 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       n 

water.  And  with  a  gesture  of  despair  he  turned 
back.  Low  and  rounded  hills  faced  him  on  all 
sides,  covered  with  a  dense  undergrowth  of  palms 
and  close-growing  shrubs  that  looked  almost  like 
black  velvet  in  the  night.  On  one,  the  highest, 
was  perched  the  native  village  from  which  the 
soldiers  had  come.  Dogs  were  barking  in  it  in- 
cessantly. It  seemed  to  Renfrew  that  Claire 
might  have  been  conveyed  there  by  these  ruffians ; 
and  he  began  hastily  to  ascend  in  the  direction  of 
the  dogs'  acute  voices.  He  stumbled  among  the 
palms  at  first ;  but,  mounting  higher,  he  came  into 
the  eye  of  the  moon,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  a 
shrouded  silver  radiance.  The  camp  faded  away 
below  him,  and  he  felt  the  breeze  with  greater 
force.  Yet  its  breath  was  warm.  Could  Claire 
feel  it  ?  Did  she  see  the  moon  ?  Now  the  dogs 
were  evidently  close  by.  The  village  must  be 
behind  that  big  clump  of  trees.  Renfrew  sprang 
upward,  passed  through  them,  suddenly  drew  a 
great  breath  and  stood  still. 

Beyond  the  trees  there  was  a  small  clearing  that 
almost  corresponded  to  our  English  notion  of  a  vil- 
lage green.  On  the  near  side  of  it  was  the  clump 
of  trees  in  whose  shadow  Renfrew  now  stood. 
On  the  far  side  of  it  was  the  Moorish  village,  a 
minute  collection  of  low  huts  like  hovels,  featureless 
and  filthy.  The  moon  streamed  over  the  clearing 
and  lit  up  faintly  a  cluster  of  seated  figures  that 
formed  a  good-sized  circle.  The  figures  looked 


12  BYE-WAYS 

broad  and  almost  shapeless,  for  they  were  all 
smothered  in  long,  voluminous  robes,  and  over  all 
the  heads  great  hoods  were  drawn  which  hid  the 
faces  of  the  wearers.  They  were  absolutely 
motionless,  and  differed  little  from  the  more  dis- 
tant clumps  of  dwarf  palms  that  grew  everywhere 
among  the  huts.  Only  they  possessed  the  curi- 
ously sullen  aspect  of  things  alive  but  entirely 
motionless.  It  was  not  this  living  Stonehenge  of 
Morocco,  however,  which  caused  Renfrew  to  catch 
his  breath  and  rooted  him  in  the  shadow.  In  the 
centre  of  the  circle,  lit  up  by  the  moon,  there 
stood  something  that  might  have  been  a  phantom, 
it  was  so  thin,  so  tall,  so  white-faced,  so  strange 
in  its  movements.  It  was  a  woman,  and  long 
black  hair  flowed  down  to  its  waist,  —  night  stand- 
ing back  from  that  moon,  vague  and  spectral,  the 
face.  •  In  this  human  night  and  moon,  great 
sombre  eyes  gleamed  with  a  sort  of  fatigued 
beauty.  This  spectre  stretched  out  its  long  arms 
in  weird  gesticulations  and  sometimes  swayed  its 
body  as  if  it  moved  to  music.  And  from  its  lips 
came  a  soft  and  liquid  stream  of  golden  words 
that  mingled  with  the  acid  barking  of  the  dogs, 
some  of  which  crept  furtively  about  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  serene  hooded  circle  of  the  listeners. 
This  murmuring  spectre  was  Claire.  She  was 
girt  about  with  silently  staring  Moors.  And  she 
was  in  the  act  of  delivering  one  of  her  most 
famous  recitations,  which  she  had  last  given  at 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       13 

a  monster  morning  performance  before  Royalties 
in  London,  on  a  sultry  day  of  the  season.  As 
this  fact  broke  upon  Renfrew's  mind,  he  seemed 
for  a  moment  to  be  back  in  the  hot  dressing- 
room  in  which  Claire  had  said :  "  I  will  marry 
you."  He  seemed  to  hear  her  passionate 
exclamation :  "  I  should  like  to  act  to-night  to 
a  circle  of  savages  !  "  The  hill  men  of  this  part 
of  Morocco  may  not  be  savages,  but  they  are 
fierce  and  wild  and  ruthless.  And  now  they  hung 
upon  the  lips  that  had  spoken  to  London,  Paris, 
Vienna,  New  York  —  but  never  before  to  such 
an  audience  as  this.  The  recitation  was  a  de- 
scription of  the  performance  of  a  snake-charmer, 
his  harangue  to  his  reptiles  and  to  the  crowd 
watching  him,  and  his  departure  into  the  solitude 
of  the  great  desert,  there  to  obtain,  in  communion 
with  its  spirit,  the  power  to  work  greater  miracles, 
and  to  charm  not  alone  the  serpents  that  dwell 
among  the  rocks  and  in  the  forests,  but  also  men, 
women,  little  children,  —  the  power  to  thrust  a 
human  world  into  a  kennel  of  plaited  straw,  to 
take  it  out  in  sections  at  pleasure,  and  to  make  it 
dance,  pose,  and  posture,  like  a  viper  tamed  into  a 
species  of  ballet-dancer.  In  this  recitation  the 
peculiar  and  almost  serpentine  fascination  of  Claire 
had  full  liberty.  She  represented  the  snake-charmer 
as  a  being  who  through  long  and  intimate  associa- 
tion with  snakes  had  become  like  them,  lithe, 
fantastic,  and  unexpected,  soft  and  deadly,  by 


H  BYE-WAYS 

turns  sleepy  and  violent,  a  coil  of  glistening 
velvet  and  a  length  of  cast-iron,  tipped  with  a 
poisoned  fang  and  the  music  of  a  hiss.  His 
fanaticism,  his  greed  for  money,  the  passionate 
prayer  to  Sidi  Mahomet  that  flowed  from  his  lips 
while  his  terrible  eyes  searched  an  imaginary 
crowd  in  search  of  the  richest  man  or  the  most 
excited  woman  in  it,  his  bursts  of  dancing  humour, 
his  deadly  stillness,  his  playful  familiarity  with  his 
dangerous  captives,  his  mesmeric  anger  when  they 
were  sullen  and  recalcitrant,  his  relapse  into  the 
savage  churchwarden  with  the  collecting  box  when 
his  "  show  "  was  at  an  end,  —  every  side,  every 
subtlety  of  such  a  creature  Claire  could  give  with 
the  certainty  of  genius.  As  you  watched  her,  you 
beheld  the  snakes,  you  beheld  their  master.  Even 
at  the  end  you  almost  saw  the  vast  and  trackless 
desert  open  its  haggard  arms  to  receive  its  child, 
who  passed  from  the  crowd  to  the  silence  in  which 
alone  he  could  learn  to  fascinate  the  crowd.  At 
the  great  morning  performance  in  London,  a  prince 
who  knew  the  East  had  said  to  Claire,  "Miss 
Duvigne,  you  must  have  lived  with  snake-charmers. 
You  must  have  studied  them  for  months." 

"  I  never  saw  one  in  my  life,"  she  answered 
truthfully. 

And  now  she  gave  her  performance  to  those 
who,  in  the  dingy  market  squares  of  their  white- 
walled  cities,  had  seen  the  snakes  dance  and  had 
heard  the  prayer  to  Sidi  Mahomet.  And  they 


THE   CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       15 

squatted  in  the  moonbeams,  immobile  as  goblins 
carved  in  dusky  oak.  Yet  they  inspired  Claire. 
From  his  hiding  place  Renfrew  could  note  this. 
She  had  let  her  genius  loose  upon  them,  as  she  had 
let  her  cloud  of  hair  loose  upon  her  shoulders. 
The  frosty  touch  of  smart  conventionality  be- 
wilders and  half  paralyses  the  utterly  unconven- 
tional. Often  Renfrew  had  heard  Claire  curse  the 
smiling  and  self-contented  Londoners  who  thronged 
the  stalls  of  her  theatre.  She  felt,  with  the  swift- 
ness of  genius,  the  retarding  hand  they  laid  upon 
her  winged  talents.  She  had  no  inclination  to 
curse  these  hooded  figures  gathered  round  her  in 
the  night,  staring  upon  her  with  the  fixed  con- 
centration of  children  who  behold,  rather  than  hear, 
a  fairy  tale,  they  paid  her  the  fine  compliment  of 
an  undivided  attention.  It  was  a  curious  scene  and 
one  that  stirred  in  Renfrew  a  deep  excitement. 
He  watched  it  with  a  double  sense,  of  living  keenly 
and  of  dreaming  deeply.  Claire  gave  to  him  the 
first  sense,  the  moon  and  the  motionless  Moors  the 
second.  But  presently  one  of  the  hooded  statues 
stirred  and  swayed,  and  there  mingled  with  the 
voice  of  Claire  a  twisted  melody,  so  thin  and  wan- 
dering that  it  was  like  a  thread  binding  a  bundle  of 
gold.  It  pierced  the  night,  and  enclosed  the  words 
of  the  reciter,  one  sound  prisoned  by  another  lighter 
and  less  than  itself.  The  dogs  had  ceased  to  bark 
now,  and  only  the  voice  that  told  of  the  snake- 
charmer's  journey  into  the  desert,  and  this  whisper- 


1 6  BYE- WAYS 

ing  Moorish  tune,  plucked  by  dark  fingers  from  the 
strings  of  a  rough  lute,  moved  in  the  night,  till 
Claire  ceased.  The  lute  continued  for  a  few  bars, 
like  the  symphony  that  closes  a  song,  and  then  it 
too  ceased  abruptly  on  a  note  that  brought  no  feel- 
ing of  finale  to  modern  ears.  For  an  instant 
Claire  stood  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  human 
circle.  Then  her  arms  fell  to  her  sides.  She  moved 
swiftly  towards  the  trees  in  whose  shadow  Renfrew 
was  watching.  The  Moors  made  a  gap,  and  as  she 
passed  out  all  the  shapeless  figures  were  suddenly 
elongated  and  crowded  together  upon  her  footsteps. 
As  Claire  came  into  the  blackness  of  the  trees, 
Renfrew  stretched  out  his  hand  and  clasped  her 
arm.  She  stopped  with  no  tremor,  and  faced  him. 

«  Claire !  " 

"  What,  it  is  you,  Desmond  !  I  thought  you 
were  asleep." 

"  When  you  were  awake  ?  You  have  given  me 
a  fright.  I  came  to  your  tent;  I  found  it  empty. 
The  soldiers  were  gone." 

"  They  were  guarding  me  up  the  hill.  I  could 
not  sleep.  I  wandered  out.  How  hot  your  hand 
is!" 

Renfrew  released  her.  All  the  Moors  had 
gathered  round  them  like  enormous  shadows. 

"  My  audience  has  come  to  the  stage  door !  " 
Claire  said. 

Her  eyes  were  gleaming  with  excitement. 

"  They  are  a  beautiful   audience,"  she  added ; 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       17 

"  and  the  orchestra,  the  soft  music  —  that  was 
better  than  London  fiddles."  ' 

"  Come  back  to  the  camp,  Claire." 

"  Very  well." 

He  drew  her  arm  through  his,  and  led  her  out 
into  the  moonlight  and  down  the  hill.  Two 
shadows  detached  themselves  from  the  silent  as- 
sembly and  followed  them,  barefooted,  over  the 
dewy  grass.  They  were  the  soldiers.  Claire 
looked  back  and  saw  them. 

"  I  shall  give  those  men  a  handful  of  pesetas, 
to-morrow,"  she  said. 

They  reached  the  camp  and  sat  down  on  two 
folding  chairs  in  the  shadow  of  Claire's  tent.  The 

D 

soldiers  stood  near,  gazing  intently  at  them.  Claire 
sat  in  a  curved  attitude.  She  had  drawn  a  dark 
veil  over  her  hair,  and  her  enormous  and  tragic 
eyes  were  turned  sombrely  on  Renfrew.  She  looked 
fatigued,  as  she  often  did  after  acting  a  long  and 
passionate  part.  To  Renfrew  she  seemed  more 
wonderful  than  ever.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
that  he  was  her  husband. 

"You  have  had  your  circle  of  savages,"  he  said. 

«  Yes." 

"  And  you  liked  them  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  they  liked  me  ?  I  wonder  if 
there  was  a  snake-charmer  among  them.  When 
I  came  to  Sidi  Mahomet  I  thought  perhaps  they 
would  kill  me.  That  thought  made  me  pray  better 
than  I  can  in  London." 


1 8  BYE-WAYS 

"  You  could  charm  snakes  more  certainly  than 
any  Arab,"  Renfrew  said. 

"  I  daresay.  Perhaps  I  shall  try  at  Tetuan. 
Good-night,  Desmond." 

She  vanished  into  the  tent.  It  seemed  that  she 
evaporated  as  Sarah  Bernhardt  evaporates  in  the 
fourth  act  of  "  La  Tosca." 


II 

ON  the  following  day  they  rode  across  the  moun- 
tain to  Tetuan.  They  started  in  the  dawn. 
Claire's  eyes  were  heavy.  She  came  languidly  out 
from  the  tent  door  to  mount  her  horse,  and  when 
she  touched  Renfrew  he  felt  that  her  hand  was  cold 
like  an  icicle.  He  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  Desmond." 

He  lifted  her  into  the  saddle. 

"  You  have  n't  slept,"  he  said. 

She  looked  down  at  him  as  she  slowly  gathered 
up  her  reins. 

"  Unfortunately,  I  have,"  she  replied. 

Before  Renfrew  had  time  to  express  surprise  at 
this  unexpected  rejoinder,  she  had  struck  her  horse 
with  the  whip,  and  trotted  off  over  the  grass  in  the 
direction  of  the  white  Kasbar  that  gleamed' on  the 
hill  under  the  kiss  of  the  rising  sun.  He  leaped 
into  the  saddle,  and  followed  her.  The  path  into 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       19 

which  they  came  was  narrow,  winding  through 
wild  fig-trees  and  olives,  and  constantly  ascending. 
Claire  did  not  turn  her  head,  and  Renfrew  could 
not  ride  by  her  side.  He  watched  her  thin  and 
sinuous  figure  swaying  slightly  in  obedience  to  the 
motion  of  her  horse,  which  scrambled  over  the 
rough  path  with  the  activity  of  a  wild  cat.  In 
front  of  her  their  personal  attendant,  Mohammed, 
rode  on  a  huge  grey  mule,  and  sang  to  himself 
incessantly  in  a  deep  and  hiurmuring  voice.  Once 
or  twice  Renfrew  spoke  to  Claire,  but  she  did  not 
seem  to  hear  him.  He  resolved  to  ask  about  her 
sleep  when  they  gained  some  plateau  on  which 
they  could  rest  for  a  moment.  At  present  it  was 
necessary  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  his  horse 
and  on  the  dangers  of  the  road. 

When  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and  they 
were  high  on  the  mountain,  above  a  gorge  in  which 
the  scrub  grew  densely,  and  great  bushes  starred 
with  yellow  and  white  flowers  hid  the  rocks  and 
made  a  home  for  birds,  Mohammed  called  a  halt. 
Renfrew  lifted  Claire  to  the  ground.  The  men 
passed  on  towards  Tetuan  with  their  camp,  and 
Claire  sank  down  on  a  gay  rug  beneath  the  shade 
of  a  huge  white  umbrella,  which  was  pitched  on  a 
square  of  level  ground  and  circled  with  luxuriant 
vegetation.  Renfrew  lay  at  her  feet  and  lit  his 
pipe,  while  Mohammed,  the  dragoman,  and  one  of 
the  porters  squatted  at  a  little  distance,  and  began 
to  play  cards  in  a  cloud  of  keef.  Claire  was  fan- 


20  BYE-WAYS 

ning  herself  slowly  with  an  enormous  Spanish  fan 
in  which  all  gay  colours  met.  She  still  looked 
very  tired.  The  shuffle  of  the  descending  mules 
died  away  down  the  mountain,  and  a  silence, 
through  which  the  butterflies  flitted,  fell  round  them. 

u  Is  this  journey  too  much  for  you,  Claire  ? " 
Renfrew  asked. 

"  No.  I  can  rehearse  for  six  hours  in  London, 
surely  I  can  ride  for  six  here." 

"  But  you  look  tired." 

"  Because,  as  I  told  you,  I  slept  too  much  last 
night." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ? " 

She  stretched  herself  on  the  rug  with  the  easy 
grace  of  a  woman  who  has  trained  her  body  to 
carry  to  the  eyes  of  others,  as  a  message,  all  the 
moods  of  passion  and  of  peace.  Then  she  leaned 
her  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"  In  the  darkness  of  the  tent,  Desmond,  I  slept 
and  did  not  know  it.  I  believed  that  I  lay  awake. 
I  thought  I  still  could  hear  the  jackals,  and  the 
stamping  of  the  mules.  But,  really,  I  slept." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  of  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  The 
wind  blew  about  the  canvas  door,  and  when  it 
bulged  outwards  I  could  see  on  each  side  of  it  a 
tiny  section  of  the  night  outside,  a  bit  of  a  bush, 
blades  of  short  grass  moving,  a  ray  of  the  moon, 
the  slinking  shadow  of  one  of  the  dogs  from  the 
village." 


THE   CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       21 

«  Yes." 

"  Presently  there  came,  I  thought,  a  stronger 
gust  than  usual.  It  tore  the  canvas  flap  from  the 
pegs,  and  the  whole  thing  blew  up,  leaving  the 
entrance  quite  open.  Then  it  blew  down  again. 
It  was  only  up  for  a  minute.  During  that  minute 
I  had  seen  that  a  very  tall  man  was  standing  outside 
the  tent." 

u  One  of  the  soldiers." 

"  If  I  had  been  awake  it  might  have  been." 

"  You  mean  that  all  this  was  a  dream  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  slept  last  night,  and  that  I  wish  I 
had  n't." 

She  turned  her  great  eyes  on  Renfrew,  holding 
the  red,  green,  and  yellow  fan  so  that  it  concealed 
the  lower  part  of  her  face.  And  he  looked  at  her, 
staring  at  him  like  some  tragic  stranger  above  the 
rampart  of  an  unknown  city,  and  wondered  whether 
she  was  acting  to  him  in  the  sun.  On  the  fore- 
finger of  the  hand  that  held  up  the  fan  a  huge  black 
pearl  perched  in  a  circle  of  gold.  Renfrew  had 
often  noticed  it  on  the  stage,  when  Claire  lifted 
the  silver  dagger  to  kill  the  man  who  loved  her  in 
the  play. 

"The  door  of  your  tent  was  securely  closed 
when  I  got  up  and  came  out  this  morning,"  he 
said. 

«  Oh,  yes." 

She  spoke  with  the  utmost  indifference.  Then 
she  added  more  sharply  :  — 


22  BYE-WAYS 

"  Desmond,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  I 
am  serpentine  ?  " 

He  was  startled  and  made  no  answer. 

ic  Weii  _  has  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  truthfully. 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Every  one  thinks  so.  You  are  so  thin.  You 
move  so  silently.  Your  body  is  so  elastic  and  con- 
trolled. You  always  look  as  if  you  could  glide 
into  places  where  other  women  could  never  go, 
and  be  at  home  in  attitudes  they  could  never 
assume." 

"  But  I  'm  an  actress  —  my  body  is  trained,  you 
know,  to  lie,  to  fall,  as  I  choose." 

11  Other  actresses  don't  give  one  the  same  im- 
pression." 

"No,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "My  peculiar 
physique  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it." 

"  Of  course,  and  there  's  something  more  than 
that,  something  mental." 

Claire's  heavy  eyes  grew  more  thoughtful.  The 
white  lids  fluttered  lower  over  them  till  they  looked 
like  the  eyes  of  one  half  asleep.  She  lay  in  silence, 
plunged  in  a  reverie  that  was  deep  and  dark.  In 
this  reverie  she  forgot  to  move  her  fan,  which 
dropped  from  her  hand  and  fell  softly  upon  the 
rug.  Renfrew  did  not  interrupt  her.  His  worship 
had  learned  to  wait  upon  her  moods.  A  huge 
dragon-fly  passed  on  its  journey  towards  the  far 
blue  range  of  the  Atlas  Mountains.  It  whirred  in 


THE    CHARMER    OF    SNAKES       23 

its  haste,  and  its  burnished  body  shone  in  the 
sunshine  between  its  gleaming  wings.  Claire 
snatched  at  it  with  her  hand,  but  missed  it. 

"  I  should  like  to  wear  it  as  a  jewel,"  she  said. 

Then  she  turned  slowly  again  towards  Renfrew, 
ind  continued  her  nocturne  as  if  it  had  never  been 
broken  off. 

"The  canvas  flap  fell  down  again  over  the 
doorway,  Desmond,  and  it  seemed  that  just  then 
the  breeze  died  away,  expiring  in  that  angry  gust. 
I  could  not  see  anything  but  the  interior  of  the 
tent,  and  only  that  very  dimly.  But  this  man 
outside.  I  wanted  to  see  him." 

u  Did  you  recognise  that  he  was  not  one  of  the 
soldiers,  then  ?  " 

u  Perfectly.  He  was  not  dressed  as  they  are. 
They  were  entirely  muffled  up  with  hoods  drawn 
forward  above  their  faces.  And  in  their  hands  one 
could  see  their  guns.  This  man  was  bareheaded, 
and  looked  half  naked.  And  in  his  hands  —  " 

She  stopped  meditatively. 

"  Was  there  anything  in  his  hands  ?  " 

"  Well  —  yes,  there  was." 

"  What  ? " 

"  I  wanted  to  know  what  it  was.  But  at  first  I 
only  lay  quite  still  and  wished  the  wind  would 
come  again  and  blow  the  flap  up  so  that  I  could 
see  out.  But  it  had  quite  gone  down.  The  can- 
vas did  not  even  quiver." 

"  Was  it  near  dawn  ?  " 


24  BYE-WAYS 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  Does  the  breeze  sink 
then  ? " 

"  Very  often." 

"  Ah  !  Perhaps  it  was  then.  Oh,  but  you  '11 
see  in  a  minute  what  nonsense  it  is  to  think  about 
that.  I  lay  still,  as  I  said,  for  some  time,  waiting 
for  the  breeze.  And  when  it  would  n't  come,  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  must  arrive  at  a  decision 
either  to  turn  my  face  on  the  pillow  and  go  to 
sleep,  or  else  to  get  up,  go  to  the  tent  door,  and 
look  out." 

"  To  see  this  man  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  Which  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  Turned  my  face  on  the  pillow." 

"  And  went  off  to  sleep  ?  " 

"  No,  grew  most  intensely  awake  —  as  I  sup- 
posed. The  pillow  was  like  fire  against  my  cheek. 
It  burnt  me.  With  the  departure  of  the  breeze 
the  night  had  become  suddenly  most  intolerably  hot. 
I  turned  over  on  my  back  and  lay  like  that.  Then 
I  felt  as  if  there  was  sand  on  the  sheets." 

"  Sand  !  Impossible !  We  are  n't  in  the 
desert." 

u  No.  But  it  seemed  as  if  I  lay  in  hot  sand.  I 
shifted  my  position,  but  it  made  no  difference.  I 
sat  up.  The  tent  door  was  still  closed.  I  listened. 
All  those  dogs  had  ceased  to  bark.  There  was  n't 
a  sound.  Even  the  jackals  had  left  off  whining. 
Then  I  slipped  out  of  bed  and  threw  that  rose- 


THE    CHARMER    OF    SNAKES       25 

coloured  Moorish  cloak  over  me.  It  rustled  just 
like  a  thing  rustles  in  grass,  Desmond." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  peculiar  signifi- 
cance, and  as  if  she  expected  him  to  gather  some- 
thing definite  from  the  remark. 

"A  thing  in  grass,"  he  repeated,  wondering. 
"  What  sort1  of  thing  ? " 

But  Claire  avoided  the  question.  She  had  taken 
up  the  fan  again,  and  was  opening  and  shutting  it 
with  a  quiet  and  careful  sort  of  precision,  as  she 
went  on  in  a  low  and  even  voice :  — 

"  I  disliked  this  rustling,  and  held  the  cloak 
tightly  together  with  my  hands.  I  felt  as  if  the 
man  outside  the  tent  had  been  waiting  to  hear  that 
very  little  noise." 

"  The  rustling  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  that  when  he  heard  it  he  smiled  to 
himself,  I  did  n't  intend  he  should  hear  it  again 
though,  and  as  I  glided  towards  the  tent  door,  I 
held  the  cloak  very  tight  and  away  from  my  body. 
And  I  don't  think  I  can  have  made  any  noise. 
You  know  how  softly  I  can  move  when  I  choose  ?  " 

"Yes." 

11  When  I  got  to  the  door,  I  waited.  I  could  n't 
hear  the  man  ;  but  I  felt  that  he  was  still  there,  just 
on  the  other  side  of  the  flap." 

Renfrew  leaned  forward  on  the  rug.  He  felt 
deeply  interested,  perhaps  only  because  Claire  was 
the  narrator.  She  held  him  much  as  she  could 
hold  an  audience  in  a  theatre*  by  her  pose,  her 


26  BYE-WAYS 

hands,  her  pale,  almost  weary  face,  her  heavy 
sombre  eyes,  even  more  than  by  any  words  she 
chanced  to  be  uttering.  She  could  make  anything 
seem  vitally  important  if  she  chose,  simply  by  her 
manner.  Renfrew's  pipe  had  gone  out ;  but  he 
did  not  know  it,  and  still  kept  it  between  his  lips. 

"  I  waited  for  some  time  by  the  flap,"  Claire 
continued  calmly.  "  I  was  going  to  lift  it  presently, 
I  knew;  but  I  could  not  do  it  at  once.  The  man 
and  I  were  standing,  I  suppose,  for  full  five  min- 
utes only  divided  by  that  strip  of  canvas.  I  tried 
not  to  breathe  audibly,  and  I  could  not  hear  him 
breathe.  At  last  I  resolved  to  see  him,  and  con- 
sidered how  I  should  do  so.  If  I  remained  stand- 
ing and  looked  out,  I  should  have  to  push  the  flap 
quite  away  and  my  eyes  would  be  nearly  on  a 
level  with  his.  He  would  certainly  see  me.  I 
did  n't  wish  that.  I  did  n't  intend  at  all  that 
he  should  see  me.  Therefore  I  resolved  to  lie 
down." 

"  On  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  flat,  and  to  raise  the  bottom  of  the 
flap  gently  an  inch  or  two.  This  would  enable 
me  to  see  him  without  being  seen,  if  I  did  it  with- 
out noise.  I  dropped  down  quite  softly.  Do 
you  remember  my  death  in  c  Camille '  ?  " 

Renfrew  nodded. 

"  Almost  like  that.  But  the  rose-coloured  stuff 
rustled  again.  I  wished  I  had  n't  put  it  on.  I 


THE   CHARMER   OF  SNAKES      27 

raised  the  flap  very  slightly  and  peeped  out.  Do 
you  know  what  I  felt  like  just  then,  Desmond  ?  " 

«  What  ?  " 

"Just  like  a  snake  in  ambush.  When  my 
cloak  rustled,  it  was  the  grass  against  my  body.  I 
lay  in  cover,  and  could  see  my  enemy  like  a  crea- 
ture in  a  forest,  or  a  reptile  in  scrub." 

She  glanced  round  at  the  bushes  and  the  densely 
growing  palms. 

"  Yes,  I  lay  there  like  a  snake  in  the  grass." 

She  stretched  herself  out  on  the  rug  as  she 
spoke,  with  her  head  towards  Renfrew  and  her  eyes 
fastened  on  his. 

"  I  saw  first  the  feet  of  the  man  close  to  my 
eyes.  His  feet  were  almost  black  and  bare.  His 
legs  were  bare.  My  glance  travelled  up  him,  and 
I  saw  that  his  chest  and  his  arms  were  bare  too. 
He  was  clothed  in  a  sort  of  loose  rough  garment, 
the  colour  of  sacking,  that  fell  into  a  kind  of  hood 
behind ;  and  he  looked  enormously  powerful. 
That  struck  me  very  much  —  his  power." 

"  Did  you  see  his  face  ?  " 

"  Quite  well.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  watch- 
ing and  listening  with  the  closest  attention.  He  was 
smiling  slightly,  too,  as  if  something  that  had  just 
happened  had  satisfied  him.  I  knew  he  had  heard 
the  rustle  of  my  robe  as  I  slipped  to  the  ground." 

"  But  why  should  that  please  him  ?  " 

"  It  told  him  that  I  was  there,  that  I  was 
attentive  too." 


28  BYE-WAYS 

Renfrew's  face  slightly  darkened. 

"  As  I  looked,  I  saw  what  he  was  holding  in  his 
hands." 

"  What  was  it  —  a  dagger  —  a  staff  ?  " 

"  A  serpent." 

Renfrew  could  not  repress  an  exclamation. 

"  Very  large  and  striped.  Its  skin  was  like  shot 
silk  in  the  moonlight.  It  writhed  softly  between 
his  hands,  and  turned  its  flat  head  from  side  to  side. 
It  seemed  to  be  trying  to  bend  down  towards 
where  I  lay.  Its  tongue  shot  out  like  a  length  of 
riband  out  of  one  of  those  wooden  winders  that 
you  buy  in  cheap  shops.  I  should  think  its  body 
was  quite  five  feet  long,  and  its  colour  seemed  to 
change  as  it  turned  about.  Sometimes  it  was 
pink,  then  it  looked  dull  green  and  almost  black. 
Once  it  wriggled  down  so  near  to  the  ground  that 
I  could  see  two  fangs  in  its  open  mouth  like  hooks, 
and  the  roof  of  its  mouth  was  flesh  colour." 

"  How  abominable  !  "  said  Renfrew,  softly. 

"  I  did  n't  feel  it  so  at  all,"  Claire  said.  "  I 
wanted  it  to  come  to  me,  —  back  into  the  grass 
where  such  things  are  safe.  But  the  man  would  n't 
let  it  go.  He  thrust  it  into  his  breast.  He 
wanted  to  have  his  hands  free." 

"  Good  God,  Claire  —  what  for  ?    Did  he  —  ? " 

She  smiled  at  his  sudden  violence,  which  showed 
his  interest. 

"  When  the  snake  was  safe,  he  drew  out,  still 
smiling  and  listening,  a  little  pipe  that  looked  as  if 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       29 

it  were  made  of  straw,  very  common  and  dirty. 
He  held  it  up  to  his  black  lips,  and  began  to  play 
very  softly  and  sleepily.  Desmond,  the  tune  he 
played  was  charmed.  It  was  a  tune  composed  — • 
for  —  for—  " 

She  broke  off.     . 

"  You  know  the  Pied  Piper  had  his  tune,"  she 
said ;  "  the  rats  had  to  follow  it.  Well,  this  tune 
was  for  the  serpents." 

"  To  charm  them  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Wisely  —  dangerously  —  almost  irresistibly, 
perhaps  in  time,  Desmond,  quite,  quite  irresistibly. 
There  is  a  music  for  all  creatures,  all  reptiles,  birds, 
—  everything  that  lives ;  this  was  for  the  snakes." 

"  Well,  but,  Claire,  how  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  dull  amusement 
and  pity  in  her  half-shut  eyes. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  knew  it,  because  the  tune  charmed  me, 
Desmond." 

"  Ah,  you  are  acting  !  I  half  suspected  it  from 
the  first,"  Renfrew  exclaimed  almost  roughly. 

He  sat  up  as  a  man  who  has  been  lying  under  a 
spell  stirs  when  the  spell  is  broken.  Now  he  knew 
that  his  pipe  was  out,  and  he  felt  for  his  match- 
box. But  Claire  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  gently. 

"  No,  I  am  not  acting,"  she  said.  "  The  tune 
charmed  me.  You  see  I  am  a  woman ;  and  there 


30  BYE-WAYS 

are  many  women  who  feel  at  moments  that  what 
attracts  some  special  creature,  thing,  of  the  so- 
called  world  without  a  soul,  attracts  them  too. 
Some  men  can  whistle  a  woman  as  they  would  a 
dog,  can't  they  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Yes,  and  some  men  can  charm  a  woman  as 
they  could  charm  a  serpent." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Claire." 

"  You  don't  choose  to.  The  animal  is  in  us  all, 
hidden  deftly  by  Nature,  the  artful  dodger  of  the 
scheme  of  creation,  Desmond ;  and  we  know  it 
when  the  right  tune  is  played  to  summon  it  from 
its  slumber  in  the  nest  of  the  human  body.  Only 
the  right  tune  can  waken  it." 

"  The  animal !     But  —  " 

"  Or  the  reptile,  perhaps.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter ?  This  was  the  right  tune  for  me.  I  lay 
there  like  a  snake  in  the  grass  and  it  thrilled  me  ! 
And  all  the  time  the  black  man  smiled  and  listened 
for  the  rustling  at  his  feet.  You  look  black, 
Desmond  !  How  absurd  of  you  to  be  angry  !  " 

And  she  closed  her  fingers  over  his  hand  till  the 
frown  died  out  of  his  face. 

"  The  tune  seemed  to  draw  me  to  the  man.  I 
understood  just  how  he  had  captured  the  serpent 
that  lay  hidden  in  his  bosom.  It  had  once  lain 
in  ambush  as  I  lay  now,  long  ago  perhaps,  in  the 
desert  among  the  rocks,  on  the  sand,  Desmond." 

u  Ah,  the  sand  !  "  he  said,  remembering  suddenly 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       31 

the  strange  feeling  Claire  had  described  as  coming 
upon  her  when  she  was  trying  to  sleep. 

"  Yes.  And  he  had  drawn  it  from  the  sand  to 
the  oasis  among  the  palms  where  he  stood  playing, 
till  he  heard  its  rustling  in  the  grass  about  his  feet, 
as  it  glided  nearer  to  him,  and  nearer,  and  nearer, 
till  at  last  it  reared  up  its  body,  and  wound  up  him 
and  round  him,  and  laid  its  flat  head  between  his 
great  hands.  Yes,  that  was  how  it  came." 

"  You  fancy." 

"  I  know.  But  I  would  not  go.  I  determined 
that  I  would  not,  and  I  lay  perfectly  still.  But  all 
the  time  I  longed  to  go.  I  had  an  almost  irresis- 
tible passion  for  movement  towards  that  tune.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  stream  of  music  into  which  I  yearned 
to  plunge,  and  drown  and  die.  And  it  flowed  up 
there  at  the  man's  lips  !  The  longing  increased  as 
he  piped  the  tune,  over  and  over  and  over  again, 
almost  under  his  breath.  I  was  sick  with  it,  and  it 
hurt  me  because  I  resisted  it.  And  at  last  I  knew 
that  resisting  it  would  kill  me.  I  must  either  go,  or 
not  go,  and  die.  There  was  no  alternative.  That 
music  simply  claimed  me.  It  had  the  right  to.  And 
if  I  denied  that  right  I  should  cease.  I  did  deny  it." 

She  shuddered  in  the  sun,  then  added,  almost 
harshly :  — 

"  Like  a  fool." 

"  And  then,  Claire,  then  —  ?  " 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  died  in  most  horrible 
pain.  I  lived  once  more  when  you  said,  outside 


3  2  BYE-WAYS 

my  tent,  *  Claire,  time  to  get  up.'  You  see,  I 
slept  too  much  last  night." 

And  again  she  shuddered.  A  look  of  relief  shot 
into  Renfrew's  face. 

"  All  this  came  from  your  mad  performance  to 
those  Moors,"  he  said.  "  You  impersonate  so 
vividly  that  even  sleep  cannot  release  your  genius, 
and  bring  it  out  from  the  world  which  you  have 
deliberately  forced  it  to  enter." 

"  But,  Desmond,  I  impersonated  the  charmer  of 
the  snake,  not  the  snake  itself."  ' 

"  Oh,  in  a  dream  the  mind  always  wanders  a 
little  from  the  event  that  has  caused  the  dream. 
It  is  like  a  faulty  mimic  who  strives  to  reproduce 
with  exactitude  and  slightly  fails.  Time  to  go, 
Absalem  ? " 

The  dragoman  had  come  up. 

As  they  rode  down  the  mountain  a  strange  thing 
occurred,  strange  at  least  in  connection  with 
Claire's  narrative  of  the  night.  Mohammed,  who 
was  riding  just  in  front  of  them,  pulled  up  his  mule 
beside  a  thicket  at  the  wayside,  and,  turning  his 
head,  signed  to  them  to  be  silent.  Then,  pursing 
his  lips,  he  whistled  a  shrill  little  tune.  In  a 
moment  an  answer  came  from  the  thicket ;  Claire 
glanced  at  Renfrew  with  a  slight  smile.  Here  was 
a  sort  of  side  light  of  reality  thrown  upon  her 
dream  and  upon  their  conversation.  Mohammed 
whistled  again.  The  echo  followed.  And  then 

D 

suddenly  a  bird  flew  out,  almost  into  his  face,  and, 


THE   CHARMER   OF  SNAKES       33 

startled,  swerved  and  darted  away  across  the  gorge 
into  the  dense  woods  beyond. 

"  A  charm  of  birds,"  Claire  murmured  to  Ren- 
frew, as  they  rode  on.  "  The  summoning  tune  — • 
what  can  resist  it  ? " 

"  Claire,"  he  said,  almost  reproachfully,  "  you 
speak  like  a  fatalist." 

"  And  I  believe  I  am  one,"  she  answered. 
"  Destiny  is  not  only  a  phantom  but  also  a  fact. 
Mine  is  marked  out  for  me  and  known  —  " 

"To  whom  ?     Not  to  yourself?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  To  whom  then  ?  " 
'    "  To  the  hidden  force  that  directs  all  things." 

"  I  am  your  destiny." 

"  Ah,  Desmond  —  or  Morocco.  I  feel  to-day 
as  if  I  shall  never  see  England  again,  or  a  civilised 
audience  such  as  I  have  known." 

And  then  she  seemed  to  fall  into  a  waking 
dream.  Even  Renfrew  felt  drowsy,  the  air  was 
so  intensely  hot  and  the  motion  of  the  horses  so 
monotonous.  And  Mohammed's  deep  voice  was 
never  silent.  It  buzzed  like  a  bourdon  in  the 
glare  of  the  noontide,  till,  far  away  on  the  hill-side, 
they  saw  white  Tetuan  facing  the  plain,  the  river 
moving  stagnantly  towards  the  sea,  the  great  fields 
of  corn  in  which  strange  flowers  grew,  and  the 
giant  range  of  shaggy  mountains,  swimming  in  a 
mist  of  gold  that  looked  like  spangled  tissue. 


34  BYE-WAYS 


III 

THE  camp  was  pitched  beyond  the  city  in  the 
green  plain  that  lies  between  Tetuan  and  the  sea. 
From  the  tents  Renfrew  and  Claire  saw  the  trains 
of  camels  and  donkeys  passing  slowly  along  the 
high  road  towards  the  steep  and  stony  hill  that 
leads  up  to  the  lower  city  gate,  the  white-washed 
summer  palaces  of  the  wealthy  Moors,  nestling  in 
gardens,  among  green  fields  and  groves  of  acacias, 
olives  and  almond  trees,  the  far-off  line  of  blue 
water  on  the  one  hand  and  the  fairy-like  and  ivory 
town  upon  the  other.  Clouds  of  brown  dust  flew 
up  in  the  air,  and  the  hoaise  cry  of  "  Balak !  Balak ! " 
made  a  perpetual  and  distant  music.  Far  more 
strange  and  barbarous  was  this  city  than  Tangier.' 
All  traces  of  Europe  had  faded  away.  Thousands 
of  years  seemed  now  to  stand  like  a  wall  between 
the  Continents,  and  the  hordes  of  dark  and  fanati- 
cal Moslems  gazed  upon  the  great  actress  and  her 
husband  as  we  gaze  at  wild  animals  whose  aspects 
and  whose  habits  are  strange  to  us. 

"  I  know  now  what  it  is  to  feel  like  an  unclean 
dog,"  Claire  said,  as  they  sat  at  dinner  under  the 
stars  that  night,  after  their  halting  progress  through 
the  filthy  alleys  of  the  white  fairyland  on  the  hill- 
side. "  It  is  a  grand  sensation.  I  suppose  chil- 
dren enjoy  it,  too.  That  must  be  why  they  like 
making  mud-pies." 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       35 

"  To-morrow  is  market-day,  Absalem  tells  me," 
Renfrew  said.  "  We  will  spend  it  in  the  town,  and 
you  can  feel  unclean  to  your  heart's  content  — 
you ! " 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed  low,  with  the 
pride  of  a  lover  in  a  beautiful  woman  who  is  his 
own. 

"  They  ought  to  fall  down  and  worship  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Moors  worship  a  woman  !  Desmond,  you  are 
mad ! " 

"  No,  they  are  —  they  are.  See,  Claire,  the 
moon  is  coming  up  already.  Can  it  be  shining  on 
Piccadilly  too,  and  on  the  facade  of  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  The  theatre  !  I  can't  believe  I  shall  ever  see 
it  again." 

"  Nonsense  ! " 

"  Is  it  ?  This  wild  country  seems  to  have 
swallowed  me  up,  and  I  don't  feel  as  if  it  will  ever 
disgorge  me  again.  Desmond,  perhaps  there  are 
some  lands  that  certain  people  ought  never  to 
visit.  For  those  lands  love  them,  and,  once  they 
have  seized  their  prey,  they  will  never  yield  it  up 
again.  Poor  men  must  often  feel  that  when  they 
are  dying  in  foreign  places.  It  is  the  land  which 
has  taken  them  to  itself  as  an  octopus  takes  a  drift- 
ing boat  in  a  lonely  sea.  Africa  !  " 

She  had  risen  from  her  seat  and  moved  out  into 
the  vague  plain.  Renfrew  followed  her. 

"  I  wonder  in  which    direction  the  desert    lies 


36  BYE-WAYS 

nearest,"  she  said.  "  All  the  strange  people  come 
in  from  the  desert,  as  the  strange  things  of  life  come 
in  from  the  future,  only  one  so  seldom  hears  the 
tinkling  bells  of  those  deadly  silent  caravans  in 
which  they  travel.  If  we  could  hear  and  see  them 
coming,  what  emotions  we  should  have  !  " 

"  There  are  premonitions,  some  men  say,"  Ren- 
frew answered. 

"  The  faint  bells  of  the  caravans  ringing,  —  do 
you  ever  hear  them  ?  " 

"  No,  Claire  —  never.     And  you  ?  " 

"  I  half  thought  I  did  once." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  Last  night.  Hark !  The  men  have  finished 
supper  and  are  beginning  to  sing.  That 's  a  song 
about  dancing." 

"  To-morrow  we  are  going  to  feast  the  soldiers, 
and  have  an  African  fire." 

"  Splendid  !  I  think  I  will  leap  through  the 
flames." 

Renfrew  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"  No,  no.  They  might  singe  your  beauty. 
And  yet,  you  are  a  flame  too.  You  have  burnt 
your  name,  yourself,  like  a  brand  upon  my  heart." 

The  dancing  song  rang  up  in  the  moonlight  like 
the  wailing  of  dead  masqueraders.  All  Moorish 
songs  are  sad  and  thrilling,  fateful  and  pregnant 
with  unrest  and  with  forebodings. 

With  the  daylight  the  Jews  came,  in  their  long 
and  morose  garments  and  black  skull-caps,  bearing 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       37 

bales  of  embroideries,  slippers,  and  uncut  jewels. 
When  they  saw  the  wonderful  black  pearl  upon 
Claire's  finger  their  huge  eyes  flamed  with  an 
avarice  so  fierce  and  open  that  Renfrew  instinctively 
moved  between  them  and  Claire,  as  if  to  guard  her 
from  assault. 

But  the  wonderful  pearl  was  not  for  them. 

The  sun  blazed  furiously  when  they  got  upon 
their  horses  to  ride  to  the  Soko.  Each  day  the 
season  was  growing  hotter,  and  Absalem  told  them 
that  there  were  no  English  in  Tetuan.  Nor  did  they 
set  eyes  on  a  European  woman  until  that  day  when 
Renfrew  rode  back,  crouching  along  his  horse,  to 
the  villas  of  Tangier. 

Tetuan  has  more  than  one  open  mouth,  and  when 
it  swallows  you  the  contemplation  of  a  fairyland  is 
immediately  exchanged  for  a  desperate  reality  of 
populous  filth,  stentorian  uproar,  uneven  boulders, 
beggars,  bazaars  like  rabbit  hutches,  men  and  chil- 
dren pitted  with  small-pox  till  they  appear  scarcely 
human, lepers,  Jews,  pirates  from  the  RifF  Moun- 
tains, fanatics  from  the  Ape's  Hill,  water-carriers, 
veiled,  waddling  women,  dogs  like  sharp  shadows, 
and  monkeys  that  appear  and  vanish  in  sinister 
doorways  with  the  rapidity  and  gestures  of  demons. 
On  a  market-day  the  city  is  so  full  that  it  seems  as 
if  the  circling  and  irregular  white  waDs  must  burst 
and  disgorge  the  clamouring  and  gesticulating  in- 
habitants into  the  tranquil  plain  below.  Claire 
surveyed  this  blanched  hell  with  a  still  serenity,  as 


38  BYE-WAYS 

she  had  often  surveyed  an  applauding  audience  at 
the  close  of  her  evening's  task,  ere  she  thanked 
them  with  the  curious  gesture,  that  was  almost  a 
salaam,  in  which  humility  and  a  remote  pride 
mingled.  Noise  generally  gave  her  calm;  and  when 
passion  broke  from  her  she  taught  the  world  to  be 
intensely  silent.  These  alleys  became  like  a  dream 
to  her,  and  the  tiny  interiors  of  the  bazaars  were 
little  histories  of  visionary  lives,  some,  but  only  a 
few,  mysteriously  beautiful.  One,  in  a  very  dark 
place  where,  for  some  unknown  cause,  all  voices 
died  away  till  the  hot  air  was  full  of  a  whispering 
stillness,  brought  slow  tears  to  Claire's  eyes.  In 
the  Street  of  the  Slippers  she  passed  a  cupboard  of 
wood  raised  high  from  the  pavement,  with  low 
roof,  leaning  walls,  and,  in  front,  a  little  bar  like 
that  which  fences  an  English  baby  in  its  chair  be- 
fore the  fire.  In  this  cupboard  squatted  two  tiny 
Moorish  infants,  sole  occupants  of  the  cupboard, 
with  solemn  faces,  bending  to  ply  their  trade  of 
pricking  patterns  upon  rose-coloured  Morocco 
leather.  There  was  no  beauty  in  the  cupboard, 
sweetness  of  light,  or  ease.  And  the  faces  of  the 
little  boys  were  sad  and  elderly.  But,  placed  care- 
fully between  them,  was  an  ugly  three-legged  stool, 
on  which  stood  two  dwarf  earthen  jars  containing 
two  sprigs  of  orange  flower,  and,  as  Claire  looked, 
one  of  the  babes  laid  down  his  leather,  lifted  his 
jar,  sniffed,  with  a  sort  of  gentle  resignation,  at  his 
flower,  and  then  resumed  his  diligent  labours,  re- 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       39 

freshed  perhaps,  and  strengthened.  In  the  action 
Claire  seemed  to  catch  sight  of  a  little  pallid  soul 
striving  to  exist  feebly  among  the  slippers. 

11  Did  you  see  ? "  she  cried  to  Renfrew,  when 
the  baby  shoemakers  were  lost  to  sight. 

He  nodded. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  Moorish  woman,  Desmond." 

"  Good  Heaven  !     Why  !  " 

11  So  that  I  could  kiss  the  infant  who  smelt 
the  orange  flower  in  his  own  language.  Little 
artist !  " 

.  Her  sudden  blaze  of  enthusiasm  was  checked 
by  the  infernal  Soko  into  which  they  now  entered. 
In  this  unpaved  square,  upon  which  the  pitiless 
sun  beat,  the  earth  seemed  to  have  come  alive, 
to  have  formed  itself  into  a  thousand  vague  sem- 
blances of  human  figures,  and  to  be  shrieking, 
moving,  twisting,  gesticulating,  as  if  striving  to 
impart  a  thousand  abominable  secrets  till  now 
hidden  from  the  world  that  walks  upon  its  sur- 
face. As  snow-men  resemble  the  snow,  so  did 
these  bargainers,  these  buyers,  sellers,  barterers, 
pedlars,  resemble  the  baked  earth  on  which  they 
squatted.  Shrouded  in  earth-coloured  garments, 
they  shrieked,  strove,  rang  their  bells,  kicked  their 
donkeys,  elbowed  their  rivals,  pommelled  their 
camels,  recited  the  Koran,  or  testified  with  frenzy, 
the  terrific  honesty  of  all  their  dealings.  Here 
and  there  tents  made  of  mud-coloured  rags  cast 
a  grotesque  shadow,  in  which  broad  women, 


40  BYE-WAYS 

hidden  by  veils  like  sacks,  and  dominated  by  straw 
hats  a  yard  wide,  sat  huddled  together  and  pecked 
at  by  wandering  fowls.  Jew  boys,  with  long  and 
expressive  faces,  their  black  hair  plastered  upon  their 
foreheads  in  fringes  that  touched  their  eyes,  strolled 
through  the  mob  in  batches,  some  of  them  read- 
ing in  little  books.  Soudanese  slave  girls  carried 
bouquets  of  orange  flowers.  In  a  corner  some 
Hawadji  were  leaping  monotonously  to  the  thun- 
der of  a  Moorish  drum  made  of  baked  earth  and 
of  parchment.  A  sheep,  escaped  from  the  slaugh- 
terer, tumbled  with  piteous  bleatings  into  a  group 
of  half  breeds,  Spanish  Moors,  who  were  playing 
cards  near  a  stall  covered  with  raw  meat  and  great 
lumps  of  some  substance  that  looked  like  lard. 
On  a  huge  heap  of  rotten  oranges  and  decaying 
fish,  over  which  millions  of  flies  swarmed,  a 
number  of  children  in  close  white  caps  were 
moving  in  some  mysterious  game  in  which  two 
prowling  cats  occasionally  took  an  unintentional 
part.  Some  RifF  Arabs,  fierce  as  tigers,  tall  and 
half-naked,  stalked  feverishly  towards  a  water- 
carrier  whose  lean  form,  tottering  with  age,  was 
almost  eclipsed  beneath  the  monstrous  bladder 
he  bore  incessantly  through  the  multitude.  The 
horses  of  Renfrew  and  of  Claire  could  scarcely 
plant  their  hoofs  on  anything  that  was  not  moving, 
crying,  panting,  or  cursing ;  and  they  pulled  up, 
and  prepared  to  descend  into  this  human  ocean  of 
which  all  the  waves  roared  in  their  deafened  ears. 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       41 

As  Claire  leant  to  Renfrew,  who  stretched  his 
arms  to  help  her,  she  said  to  him  :  — 

"  Can  you  swim  ?  If  not,  you  will  certainly 
be  drowned." 

11  You  must  not  be.     Cling  to  my  arm." 

They  sank  together  to  their  necks  in  the  sea. 
In  whatever  direction  they  looked,  they  saw  a 
mass  of  heads,  an  infinite  expanse  of  shouting 
mouths.  But  suddenly  the  pressure  became  extra- 
ordinary, the  uproar  ear-splitting.  And  with  the 
voices  there  mingled  a  piercing  music  like  a  con- 
tinuous screech.  People  began  to  run,  to  trample 
in  one  direction.  The  drum  of  the  leaping 
Hawadji  was  drowned  by  a  louder  drumming  that 
came  from  the  centre  of  the  square.  Children 
squeaked  with  excitement.  The  Riffians  forgot 
to  drink,  and  slid  forward  with  the  cushioned  feet 
of  animals  in  a  jungle.  A  tempest  arose,  and  in  it 
a  whirlpool  formed.  It  seemed  that  Renfrew  and 
Claire  must  be  torn  in  pieces. 

"  What  on  earth  is  happening  ?  "  Renfrew  ex- 
claimed to  Absalem,  with  the  English  anger  our 
countrymen  always  display  when  trodden  by  a 
foreign  element. 

Absalem  smiled  with  airy  dignity,  and  moved 
forward,  beckoning  them  to  follow. 

"  Miracle  man,  all  want  see  him,"  he  remarked. 
"  Great  miracle  man." 

With  consummate  adroitness  he  drew  them 
with  him  to  the  edge  of  the  whirlpool.  As  they 


42  BYE-WAYS 

reached  it,  Renfrew  felt  that  Claire's  hand  sud- 
denly tightened  upon  his  arm  until  his  flesh 
puckered  between  her  fingers  as  the  flesh  of  a 
rabbit  puckers  in  a  trap.  He  glanced  at  her  in 
astonishment.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  something, 
or  some  one,  beyond  them,  even  beyond  Absalem, 
who  was  forcing  people  out  of  their  way  with  his 
powerful  arms  and  back.  Renfrew  followed  her 
eyes,  and  saw  the  centre  of  the  whirlpool. 

This  mass  of  humanity  had  now  assumed  the 
form  of  a  rough  circus,  the  ring  of  which  was 
kept  clear.  And  in  this  ring  a  strange  figure  had 
just  appeared  with  upraised  arms,  and  a  manner 
of  wild,  even  of  frantic,  authority.  This  was  a 
gigantic  man,  almost  black,  half-naked,  with  long 
arms,  furious  eyes,  and  legs  which,  though  mus- 
cular, tapered  at  the  ankles  like  the  legs  of  a  finely 
bred  race-horse.  His  head  was  shaved  in  front; 
but  at  the  back  the  black  hair  grew  in  a  long  and 
waving  lock,  and  his  features,  magnificently  cut, 
might  have  been  those  of  a  grand  European  of 
some  headstrong  and  high-couraged  race.  Upon 
this  man  Claire's  eyes  were  fixed,  with  an  ex- 
pression so  strange  and  knowing  that  Renfrew 
turned  on  her  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 

"Claire!    Claire!" 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Desmond." 

A  question  stammered  on  his  lips;  but  as  she 
smiled  at  him,  he  felt  the  mad  absurdity  of  it,  and 
was  silent. 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES      43 

«  Well,  Desmond,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered. 

Absalem  now  claimed  their  attention.  He  was 
determined  that  they  should  be  in  the  front  of  the 
crowd,  and  ruthlessly  pushed  away  the  Moors  who 
had  obtained  the  best  places,  pointing  at  Claire  and 
Renfrew,  and  wildly  vociferating  their  mighty  rank 
and  enormous  wealth.  The  staring  mob  gave 
way  ;  and  in  a  moment  Claire  and  the  miracle  man 
stood  face  to  face.  His  frenzied  eyes  had  no  sooner 
seen  her  than  he  too  fell  upon  the  surrounding 
natives,  thrusting  them  violently  to  one  side,  and 
cursing  them  for  daring  to  draw  near  to  the  great 
English  gentleman  and  lady.  In  the  whole  mighty 
mob  these  two  were  the  only  Europeans,  and  they 
attracted  as  universal  an  attention  as  two  Aztecs 
would  in  a  Bank  Holiday  gathering  at  the  Crystal 
Palace.  Renfrew  could  now  see  that  the  screech- 
ing music  came  from  one  side  of  the  ring,  where  a 
couple  of  men,  clothed  in  filthy  rags,  were  sitting 
on  the  ground,  one  playing  a  long  pipe  of  straw, 
the  other  beating  an  enormous  drum.  Immedi- 
ately behind  them  a  very  old  man,  evidently  a 
maniac,  swayed  his  body  violently  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  at  regular  intervals  uttered  a  loud 
and  chuckling  cry  that  might  have  been  the  ejacu- 
lation of  a  tipsy  school-boy,  and  came  strangely  from 
withered  lips  hanging  loose  with  weakness  and 
with  age.  This  dancing  Methuselah  caught  Ren- 
frew's attention ;  and,  for  the  moment,  he  forgot 


44  BYE-WAYS 

to  look  at  the  miracle  man.  A  general  outcry 
from  the  multitude  made  him  turn  his  head.  He 
saw  then  that  the  miracle  man  held  in  his  huge 
hands  a  sort  of  kennel  of  straw,  the  mouth  of  which 
was  closed  with  a  movable  flap.  Lifting  this  aloft, 
he  sprang  wildly  round  the  ring,  vociferating  some 
words  at  the  top  of  his  voice ;  then,  suddenly 
casting  it  down,  he  flung  himself  upon  the  ground, 
which  he  beat  with  his  forehead,  while  he  shrieked 
out  a  prayer  to  his  patron  saint  for  protection  in 
the  great  miracle  which  he  was  about  to  perform. 

"  What  is  he  doing  ?  "  Renfrew  asked  of  Absa- 
lem. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  "  Claire  said. 

Her  eyes  were  gleaming  with  excitement  as  they 
stared  at  the  salaaming  figure  that  grovelled  at  their 
feet. 

"No.     How  should  I?" 

"  He  is  praying  to  Sidi  Mahomet,"  she  said. 

And  then  she  looked  at  Renfrew.  He  under- 
stood. At  that  moment,  despite  the  excessive  heat 
engendered  by  the  blazing  sun  and  the  pressure  of 
the  crowd,  he  turned  very  cold,  as  if  his  body  was 
plunged  in  glacier  water.  He  thought  of  the  tall 
figure  that  had  stood  before  Claire's  tent  door  in 
the  moonbeams,  the  lips  that  had  coaxed  from  the 
pipe  the  tune  that  charmed  all  serpents,  —  that  right 
tune  that  they  must  follow,  which  drew  them  from 
the  desert  sands  to  the  grass  of  the  oasis,  till  they 
wound  up  the  body  of  this  gaunt  and  tremendous 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       45 

savage,  and  hid  themselves  in  his  hairy  bosom. 
This  miracle  man,  then,  was  a  snake-charmer,  and 
Claire  had  divined  it  at  once.  How  ?  Renfrew 
put  the  question  quickly. 

"  How  did  I  know  ?  He  is  the  man  who  played 
outside  my  tent  in  the  night,  Desmond." 

"  The  very  man  !      Impossible." 

"  The  very  man." 
•  "  Then  you  were  not  asleep,  not  dreaming  ? " 

"  How  can  one  tell  ?     Hush  !  " 

She  spoke  in  the  low  voice  of  one  whose  atten- 
tion is  becoming  concentrated,  and  who  cannot 
endure  the  interruption.  The  charmer  had  now 
finished  his  petition  to  his  god,  and,  standing  up, 
thrust  into  his  mouth  a  handful  of  some  green  herb, 
which  he  chewed  and  swallowed.  Then  his  whole 
manner  abruptly  changed.  The  frenzy  died  out 
of  his  eyes.  A  calm  suffused  his  tall  and  muscular 
body  till  it  became  strangely  statuesque.  His  lips 
slowly  smiled,  and  he  raised  his  hands  towards  the 
glaring  sky  with  a  sublime  gesture  of  gratitude. 

"  What  an  actor  !  "  Renfrew  heard  Claire 
murmur  softly. 

He,  too,  had  become  intensely  engrossed  by  this 
man  in  whom  he,  from  this  moment,  began  to  see 
Claire  :  the  exquisite  woman  whom  the  civilised 
world  worshipped  in  the  mighty  savage  who  came 
from  the  remote  depths  of  Morocco;  the  white  be- 
ing who  played  with  the  minds  of  the  capitals  of 
Europe,  in  the  black  being  who  played  with  the 


46  BYE-WAYS 

reptiles  of  the  desert  and  of  the  jungle.  For  Claire, 
guided  by  the  spirit  that  ever  goes  before  genius 
bearing  the  torch,  had  instinctively  divined  what 
she  had  never  known.  In  London  it  seemed  that 
she  had  entered  into  the  very  soul  of  this  man  who 
now  stood  before  her.  She  had  caught  the  wild 
graces  of  his  bearing.  She  had  reproduced  his  smile, 
so  full  of  secrets  and  of  power.  She  had  moved  as 
he  did.  She  had  been  motionless  as  now  he  was 
motionless.  In  the  sun  she  stood  at  this  moment 
and  beheld  the  reality  of  which  she  had  been  the 
magnificent  reflection.  And  Renfrew  felt  his  heart 
oppressed,  as  if  clouds  were  closing  round  him. 

Now  the  snake-charmer  looked  slowly  all  round 
the  great  circle  of  watching  faces  until  his  eyes 
rested  on  Claire.  He  had  taken  the  straw  kennel 
into  his  hands,  and  he  softly  lifted  the  flap,  and 
turned  it  flat  upon  the  top  of  the  kennel,  leaving 
the  mouth  open.  Then  he  thrust  one  hand  into 
this  mouth,  and  withdrew  it,  holding  a  writhing 
snake  whose  striped  satin  skin  changed  colour  in 
the  sunshine,  turning  from  pink  to  green,  from 
green  to  black. 

"  It  is  the  snake  I  saw,"  Claire  whispered  to 
Renfrew. 

He  did  not  reply.  He  seemed  fascinated  by  the 
wage  and  the  serpent.  Holding  the  snake  at 
arm's  length,  the  charmer  walked  softly  round 
the  circle,  collecting  money  from  the  crowd.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  Claire.  The  snake  thrust  out 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES      47 

its  flat  head  towards  her.  She  did  not  shrink  from 
it ;  and  the  charmer  cried  aloud  some  words  that 
seemed  like  praise  of  her  beauty  and  of  her  com- 
posure. She  gave  him  a  piece  of  gold.  Renfrew 
gave  him  nothing. 

Then,  standing  once  more  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle,  he  burst  into  a  frantic  incantation,  while  the 
musicians  redoubled  their  efforts,  and  the  old  maniac 
In  the  corner  gave  forth  his  chuckling  cry  with 
greater  force,  and  swayed  his  trembling  body  more 
vehemently  to  and  fro.  The  snake,  suddenly 
brought  from  the  darkness  of  the  kennel  to  the 
light  of  day,  was  torpid  and  weary.  It  drooped 
between  the  charmer's  hands.  He  shook  it,  called 
on  it,  caught  up  a  stick  and  struck  it.  Then, 
forcing  its  mouth  wide  open,  he  barred  its  pink 
throat  with  the  stick,  on  which  he  made  it  fix  its 
two  fangs,  which  were  like  two  sharp  hooks. 
Holding  the  end  of  the  stick,  he  came  again  to 
Claire,  to  whom  his  whole  performance  was  now 
exclusively  devoted  ;  and,  approaching  the  hanging 
reptile  close  to  her  eyes,  he  jumped  it  up  and  down 
to  the  sound  of  the  drum  and  pipe. 

"  You  see,"  Claire  said  to  Renfrew, "  the  roof  of 
its  mouth  is  flesh-colour." 

He  did  not  answer.  Why  did  all  this  mean  so 
much  to  him  ?  Why  did  the  clouds  grow  darker  ? 
The  music  and  the  cries  of  the  old  maniac  per- 
turbed him  and  bewildered  his  brain.  And  he 
wanted  to  be  calm,  and  to  watch  Claire  and  this 


48  BYE-WAYS 

savage  with  a  cool  and  undivided  attention.  By 
this  time  the  snake  was  growing  irritated.  It 
agitated  its  long  body  furiously;  and  when  the 
charmer  unhooked  its  fangs  from  the  stick,  it 
turned  its  head  towards  him  and  made  a  sudden 
dart  at  his  face.  He  opened  his  mouth  wide,  thrust 
the  snake  into  it,  and  let  the  creature  fasten  on 
his  tongue,  from  which  blood  began  to  flow.  Still 
bleeding,  and  with  the  snake  fixed  on  his  tongue, 
he  danced  and  sprang  into  the  air.  His  eyes  grew 
wild.  Foam  ran  from  his  mouth,  and  his  whole 
appearance  became  demoniacal.  Yet  his  eyes  still 
fastened  themselves  upon  Claire.  In  his  most 
frantic  moments  his  attention  was  never  entirely 
distracted  from  the  spot  where  she  was  standing. 
He  tore  the  snake  from  his  tongue  and  buried  its 
fangs  in  the  flesh  of  his  left  wrist.  Cries  broke 
from  the  crowd.  The  sight  of  the  blood  had  ex- 
cited them,  for  these  people  love  blood  as  the  toper 
loves  wine.  They  urged  the  charmer  on  to  fresh 
exertions  with  furious  screams  of  encouragement. 
The  maniac  bent  his  body  like  a  dervish  in  the  last 
exercises  of  his  religion,  and  the  ragged  musicians 
forced  a  more  extreme  uproar  from  their  instru- 
ments. The  charmer  caught  the  snake  by  the  tail, 
and  strove  to  pull  it  backwards  off  his  wrist.  But 
the  reptile's  fangs  were  firmly  fastened.  It  held 
on  with  a  terrible  tenacity,  and  a  struggle  ensued 
between  it  and  its  master.  When  at  length  it  gave 
way,  it  was  streaked  with  blood,  and  now  at  last 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES      49 

thoroughly  aroused.  The  charmer  scraped  his 
tongue  with  a  straw ;  then,  casting  himself  again 
upon  the  earth,  he  prayed  once  more  with  fury  to 
Sidi  Mahomet.  Claire  watched  him  always,  with 
that  pale  and  exquisite  attention  which  one  genius 
gives  to  the  performance  of  another.  Her  face  was 
white  and  still.  Her  body  never  moved.  But  her 
eyes  blazed  with  life,  and  with  the  fires  of  a  violent 
soul  completely  awake.  Having  finished  his  prayer, 
which  ended  in  a  cry  so  poignant  that  it  might  have 
burst  from  the  lips  of  that  world  on  which  the 
flood  came,  the  charmer  remained  upon  the  ground 
in  a  sitting  posture,  laid  the  snake  in  his  lap,  and  drew 
from  the  inside  of  his  ragged  robe  a  Moorish  lute 
made  of  a  bladder,  bamboo,  and  two  strings,  and 
coloured  a  pale  yellowish-green.  He  plucked  the 
strings  gently,  and  played  the  fragment  of  a  wild 
tune.  Then,  suddenly  catching  up  the  snake,  and 
thrusting  his  tongue  far  out  of  his  mouth,  he  poised 
the  snake  upon  it,  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  at  his 
full  height  in  front  of  Claire,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
her  with  a  glance  that  seemed  to  claim  from  her 
both  wonder  and  worship.  The  snake  reared  itself 
up  higher  and  higher  upon  the  quivering  tongue ; 
and  the  charmer,  extending  his  long  arms,  whirled 
slowly  round  as  if  poised  upon  a  movable  platform, 
while  a  terrific  clamour  broke  from  the  Moors,  who 
seemed  to  be  roused  by  this  feat  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  excitement.  Still  turning  and  turning,  the 
charmer  drew  from  his  bosom  a  second  snake  that 


50  BYE-WAYS 

was  black  and  larger  than  the  first,  and  coiled  it 
round  his  sinewy  neck  like  a  gigantic  necklace,  the 
darting  head  in  front,  resting,  a  sort  of  monstrous 
pendant,  upon  his  uncovered  chest.  To  Renfrew 
he  looked  like  some  hateful  grotesque  in  a  night- 
mare, inhuman,  endowed  with  attributes  of  a  devil. 
The  serpents  were  part  of  him,  growths  of  his 
body,  visible  signs  of  some  terrible  disease  in  which 
he  gloried  and  of  which  he  made  a  show.  The 
creature  was  intolerable.  His  exhibition  had  sud- 
denly become  to  Renfrew  unfit  for  the  eyes  of  any 
woman ;  and,  without  a  word,  he  took  hold  of 
Claire  and  pulled  her  almost  violently  away  from 
the  circle  on  which  the  fascinated  mob  was  begin- 
ning to  encroach.  She  resisted  him. 

11  Desmond!"  she    exclaimed,  "what    are    you 
doing  ? " 

"Claire  —  come.  I  insist  upon  if!" 
Already  the  Moors  had  thronged  the  place  which 
they  had  left  vacant.  She  turned  a  white  face  on 
him.  There  was  in  her  eyes  the  hideous  expres- 
sion of  a  sleep-walker  suddenly  awakened,  and  she 
trembled  in  every  limb.  She  swung  round  from 
Renfrew,  and,  above  the  intercepting  Moors,  high 
in  the  air,  she  saw  the  snake,  which  seemed  climb- 
ing to  heaven.  While  she  looked,  a  huge  hand 
closed  upon  it  and  took  it  out  of  sight.  The 
charmer,  observing  the  departure  of  his  distinguished 
patrons,  had  abruptly  stopped  his  performance 
Claire  made  no  further  resistance.  Without  a 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       51 

word,  she  permitted  Renfrew  to  lead  her  to  the 
horses  and  help  her  into  the  saddle.  They  rode 
down  the  hill  to  the  camp  without  exchanging  a 
word. 

When  Claire  had  dismounted,  she  stood  for  a 
moment  twisting  her  whip  in  her  hands.  Then 
she  said  :  — 

"  Desmond,  I  must  ask  you  never  to  startle  me 
again  as  you  did  to-day,  by  sudden  action.  You 
can't  understand  how  such  an  interruption  hurts 
a  nature  like  mine.  I  would  rather  you  had 
struck  me.  That  would  only  have  wounded  my 
body." 

She  turned  and  went  into  her  tent,  leaving  Ren- 
frew in  an  agony  of  penitence  and  self-reproach. 
All  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  she  was  very  cold  and 
silent,  rather  dreamy  than  sullen,  but  obviously 
disinclined  for  conversation,  and  still  more  obvi- 
ously unwilling  to  endure  even  the  slightest  demon- 
stration of  affection  on  the  part  of  Renfrew. 
When  the  sheep  which  were  to  be  slaughtered  for 
the  soldiers'  feast  were  driven  bleating  into  the 
camp,  she  retired  into  her  tent,  and  remained 
there,  resting,  until  the  sun  was  low  in  the  heavens, 
and  the  porters  and  mule-drivers  went  gaily  out  to 
search  for  the  materials  of  the  African  fire  with 
which  the  night  was  to  be  celebrated.  They 
returned,  singing  the  Moorish  conquest  of  Granada, 
with  their  strong  arms  full  of  canes,  dry  and  brittle 
branches  of  trees,  logs  that  looked  like  whole 


52  BYE-WAYS 

trunks,  and  huge  shrubs,  green  and  sweet-smelling. 
Hearing  their  song,  Claire  came  out  of  her  tent. 
The  sky  was  red,  and,  in  the  southwest,  turrets  of 
vapour  rose  and  streamed  out,  assuming  mysterious 
and  thin  shapes  in  the  gathering  dimness.  A  great 
flock  of  birds,  flying  very  high,  and  forming  a 
definite  and  beautiful  pattern,  passed  slowly  on  the 
wing  towards  the  kingdom  of  the  storks,  that  lies 
near  the  sand  banks  of  Ceuta.  They  moved  in 
silence,  and  faded  away  in  the  twilight  stealthily, 
like  things  full  of  quiet  intention  and  governed  by 
some  furtive,  but  inexorable,  desire.  Renfrew,  who 
was  wandering  rather  miserably  near  the  camp> 
watching  descending  pilgrims  from  the  city  melt 
into  the  vast  bosom  of  the  plain,  saw  Claire's  white 
figure  in  the  tent  door,  half  hidden  in  a  soft  rosy 
mist  which  stole  from  the  Kps  of  evening  as  scent 
steals  from  the  lips  of  a  flower.  He  felt  afraid  to 
go  to  her.  He  possessed  her ;  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  now  that  he  scarcely  knew  her.  He  was  only 
an  ordinary  man.  She  was  a  strange  woman  ;  not 
merely  because  of  her  womanhood,  as  all  women 
are  to  all  men,  but  strange  in  that  which  lay 
beyond  and  beneath  her  womanhood,  in  her  genius, 
and  in  the  dull  or  ardent  moods  that  stood  round 
it,  one,  and  yet  not  one,  with  it.  In  the  tent  door 
she  leaned  like  a  spirit  born  of  the  evening,  a  child 
of  fading  things,  dying  lights,  fainting  colours, 
retreating"  sounds,  —  a  spirit  waiting  for  the  com- 
ing of  the  stars,  and  the  rising  of  the  moon,  and 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       53 

the  mysteries  of  the  night,  and  the  subtle  odours 
that  trie  winds  of  Northern  Africa  bring  with  them 
over  the  mountains  and  down  the  lonely  valleys, 
when  the  sun  descends.  And  as  a  spirit  may  listen 
to  the  songs  of  men,  with  the  melancholy  of  a  thing 
apart,  she  listened  to  the  songs  of  the  Moors,  until 
at'  length  they  seemed  to  be  in  her  own  heart  that 
evening,  as  if  they  were  songs  of  her  own  country. 
And  these  dark  men  with  wild  eyes  who  sang 
them,  while  they  flung  upon  the  grass  their  burdens 
from  the  thickets,  and  from  the  hedgeless  and  wide 
fields,  were  no  longer  alien  to  her.  She  stood  in 
the  tent  door,  and,  without  any  conscious  effort  of 
the  imagination,  became  their  fancied  mate,  —  a 
woman  sprung  from  the  same  soil,  or  come  in  — 
like  the  strange  people  —  from  the  deserts  of  their 
country.  Only  she  was  not  as  one  of  their  women, 
mindless,  patient,  and  concealed  ;  but  as  their  women 
should  be,  strong,  hot-blooded,  brave,  serene,  and 
looked  upon  by  a  world  without  reproach. 

Absalem  came  up  to  her  to  tell  her  some  details 
of  the  night's  festivity.  Before  he  spoke  she  said 
to  him  :  — 

"  Where  does  the  desert  lie  ?  " 

He  told  her. 

"  Does  the  miracle  man  come  from  there  ?  *" 

Absalem  answered  that  no  one  knew.  He  had 
been  much  in  Wasan,  the  sacred  city  of  Morocco  ; 
but  none  knew  his  birthplace,  his  tribe,  his  name. 
Often  he  disappeared,  no  man  could  tell  whither. 


54  BYE-WAYS 

But,  doubtless,  he  made  vast  journeys.  Some  said 
that  he  had  exhibited  his  snakes  on  the  banks  of 
the  Nile,  that  he  had  gone  with  the  pilgrim  trains 
to  Mecca,  that  he  knew  Khartoum  as  he  knew 
Marakesh,  and  that  he  never  ceased  from  wandering. 

"  What  is  his  age  ?  "  Claire  asked. 

Absalem  answered  that  he  must  be  old,  but 
that  Time  had  no  power  over  him. 

"  He  miracle  man ;  he  live  long  as  he  wish." 

Last  she  asked  when  he  would  leave  Tetuan. 

"  Perhaps  this  night.  Perhaps  to-morrow  night, 
perhaps  never.  Perhaps  he  go  already." 

"  Already  !  " 

Suddenly  Claire  moved  out  from  the  tent,  and 
joined  Renfrew,  who  was  still  watching  her,  and 
weaving  lover's  fancies  about  her  white  figure. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long,  Desmond  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Very  long,  dearest.     Are  you  rested  ?  " 

"  Quite.  From  here  you  can  see  all  the  people 
travelling  away  from  the  city  towards  the  sea  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  been  watching  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  for  half  the  afternoon." 

She  turned  her  great  eyes  on  him  searchingly, 
and  seemed  as  if  she  checked  a  question  which 
was  almost  on  her  lips. 

"  They  must  have  been  a  strange  multitude," 
she  said  at  length.  "  I  wonder  where  they  are 
all  going  ?  " 


THE    CHARMER    OF    SNAKES       55 

"  Some  to  the  villages  in  the  plain,  some  to  the 
coast.  I  saw  the  Riffs  who  were  in  the  Soko  pass 
by.  I  suppose  they  were  returning  to  the  caverns 
from  which  they  plunder  becalmed  vessels,  Span- 
ish and  Portuguese." 

*  The  Riffs  — yes?" 

Her  intonation  suggested  that  she  was  waiting 
for  some  further  information.  Renfrew's  curiosity 
was  aroused. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Desmond.  How  dark  it  is  getting  ! 
There  is  Mohammed  ringing  the  bell.  And  look, 
those  must  be  the  soldiers.  They  are  just  march- 
ing in  from  the  city." 

With  the  coming  of  night  a  wind  arose,  blow- 
ing towards  the  sea  from  the  mountains ;  and  with 
it  came  up  a  troop  of  clouds  which  blotted  out 
stars  and  moon,  and  plunged  the  plain  into  a  gulf 
of  darkness.  Tetuan  does  not  gleam  with  lamps 
at  night  like  a  European  city,  and  all  the  distant 
villas  of  the  Moors  were  closely  shuttered.  So 
the  wind,  warm  and  scented  and  strong,  swept 
over  a  black  land,  deserted  and  vacant.  Only  in 
the  camp  was  there  movement,  music,  and  an 
illumination  that  strove  up  in  the  night,  as  if  it 
would  climb  to  the  clouds.  Scarcely  had  Claire 
and  Renfrew  finished  dinner,  when  Absalem  and 
Mohammed  ceremoniously  appeared  to  conduct 
them  out  to  the  bare  space  before  the  tents  on 


56  BYE-WAYS 

which  the  African  fire  had  been  carefully  built. 
Absalem  carried  a  lamp  which  swung  in  the  wind, 
and,  behind,  there  appeared  from  the  kitchen  tent 
some  of  the  porters,  bearing  burning  brands,  the 
flames  of  which  were  at  right  angles  to  the  wood 
from  which  they  sprung.  The  guard  of  soldiers, 
one  dozen  in  all,  armed  with  immense  guns  and 
wrapped  in  hooded  cloaks,  were  already  crouched 
in  a  silent  mass  before  the  lifeless  and  portentous 
erection  which  came  out  of  the  darkness,  as 
Absalem  swung  forward  the  lamp,  like  the  skeleton 
of  a  monster.  They  turned  their  shadowy  faces 
on  Claire,  and  stared  with  eyes  intent  and  unself- 
conscious  as  those  of  an  animal.  The  porters 
flung  their  brands  on  to  the  mountain  of  twigs,  and 
instantaneously  a  huge  sheet  of  livid  gold  sprang  up 
against  the  black  background  of  the  night,  as  if  it 
had  been  shaken  out  on  the  wind  by  invisible 
hands.  This  sheet  expanded,  swayed,  fluttered  in 
ragged  edges,  and  cast  forth  a  cloud  of  sparks 
which  were  carried  away  into  the  air  and  vanished 
in  the  sky.  The  shrubs  caught  fire  and  crackled 
furiously,  and  finally  the  foundation  of  gigantic 
logs  began  to  glow  steadily,  and  to  fill  the  wind 
with  a  scorching  heat.  The  camp  was  gradually 
defined,  at  first  vaguely  and  in  sections,  —  the  peak 
of  a  tent,  the  head  of  a  mule,  a  startled  pariah 
dog,  a  Moor  set  in  the  eye  of  the  flames ;  then 
clearly,  as  the  buildings  one  may  see  in  a  furnace, 
comolete  and  glowing.  The  faces  of  the  soldiers 


THE    CHARMER    OF    SNAKES       57 

were  barred  with  flickering  orange,  and  red  lights 
played  in  their  huge  and  staring  eyeballs.  The 
horses  and  mules  could  be  counted.  Before  the 
kitchen  tent  the  sacrifice  of  sheep  was  visible, 
stewing  in  enormous  pans  upon  red  embers  in  a 
trench  of  earth.  And  the  grave  cook,  who  was 
distinguished  by  a  white  turban,  shone  like  a  pan- 
tomime magician  at  the  mouth  of  an  enchanted 
cave.  Warmth,  light,  life  poured  upon  the  night, 
and  the  voices  of  men  began  to  mingle  with  the 
continuous  voice  of  this  superb  fire.  The  Moors, 
soldiers,  servants,  porters,  kindled  into  furious 
gaiety  with  the  swiftness  of  the  canes  and  olive 
boughs.  They  sprang  up  from  the  ground,  pulled 
the  shrouding  hoods  from  their  faces,  tossed  away 
their  djelabes,  and  began,  with  shouts  and  ejacula- 
tions, to  dance  up  and  down  before  the  golden 
sheet,  spreading  their  hands  to  it  with  the  glee  of 
children.  A  sudden  joy  beamed  in  the  dusky  and 
solemn  faces,  twinkled  in  the  sombre  eyes.  One 
man  flung  away  his  fez,  another  dashed  his  turban 
to  the  ground.  Round,  shaven  heads,  bare  arms, 
brown  legs,  half  concealed  by  fluttering  linen 
knickerbockers,  lithe  bodies  emerged  with  eager 
haste  into  the  light.  Shadows  became  abruptly 
men,  formless  humps  athletes.  Mutes  sent  out 
great  voices  to  startle  the  sweeping  bats.  Mourn- 
ers turned  into  maniacs.  It  was  a  fantasia  that 
exploded  into  life  like  a  rocket,  shedding  a  stream 
of  vivid  human  fire.  Mohammed  drew  away 


58  BYE-WAYS 

from  the  flames,  taking  a  dozen  swift  footsteps  to 
the  rear.  Then,  with  a  shout,  he  dashed  forward, 
bounded  into  the  golden  sheet,  and  disappeared  as 
a  clown  disappears  through  a  paper  hoop.  Only 
the  paper  closed  up  behind  him.  He  leaped 
through  light  to  darkness,  pursued  by  a  thousand 
eager  sparks.  One  soldier  followed  him,  then 
another,  and  another.  The  porters,  linking  hands, 
leaped  in  twos  and  threes.  Even  the  cook,  old, 
and  serious  with  a  weight  of  savoury  knowledge, 
tottered  to  the  edge  of  the  fire,  which  was  now 
becoming  a  furnace,  and  took  it  as  an  Irish  horse 
takes  a  stone  wall,  striking  the  topmost  branches 
with  his  bare  feet  amid  a  chorus  of  yells. 

Claire  watched  the  darting  figures  with  a  silent 
gravity.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  stirred  by  the  fan- 
tasia of  the  firelight,  or  to  catch  any  gaiety  or  life 
from  the  boisterous  activity  of  those  about  her. 
The  flames  lit  up  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  and 
showed  Renfrew  that  she  was  looking  gloomy  and 
even  despairing. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Claire  ? "  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"  No.     How  could  there  be  ?  " 

The  wind,  which  was  increasing  in  violence, 
blew  her  thin  dress  forward,  and  she  shivered. 
Absalem  noticed  it. 

41  Wear  djelabe,  lady,"  he  said. 

And  in  a  moment  he  had  taken  his  off,  and  was 
carefully  wrapping  Claire  in  it.  She  seemed  glad  of 


THE    CHARMER   OF    SNAKES       59 

it,  thanked  him,  and,  with  a  quick  gesture  that  hurt 
Renfrew,  pulled  the  big  brown  hood  up  over  her 
head,  so  that  her  face  was  entirely  concealed  from 
view.  She  now  looked  exactly  like  a  Moor,  and 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  one  of  the  soldiers 
before  the  fire  was  lit  and  all  impeding  garments 
were  thrown  aside. 

Renfrew,  uneasy,  and  wondering  what  conduct  on 
his  part  would  best  suit  her  mysterious  mood,  after 
one  or  two  remarks  to  which  she  barely  replied, 
drew  away  a  little,  and  gave  his  attention  to  the 
antics  of  the  soldiers.  Some  of  them  were  already 
resuming  their  djelabes,  in  preparation  for  the  feast, 
which  they  sniffed  even  through  the  odour  of  burn- 
ing wood  and  leaves.  The  cook,  after  his  emotional 
and  acrobatic  outburst,  had  returned  to  his  pans, 
which  he  was  stirring  tenderly  with  a  stick.  When 
Renfrew  again  looked  towards  Claire,  he  found  it 
impossible  to  tell  which  cloak  shrouded  her  from 
his  sight.  Four  or  five  hooded  figures  stood  near 
the  fire.  She  must  be  one  of  them.  He  ap- 
proached the  group,  but  found,  to  his  surprise,  that 
all  the  members  of  it  were  soldiers.  Claire  had 
moved  away.  Renfrew  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
with  the  men,  till  they  were  summoned  to  their 
feast,  which,  strangely  enough,  was  to  take  place 
away  from  the  fire  in  the  dense  darkness  behind 
the  tents.  Then  he  was  left  alone  by  the  huge 
mass  of  flame,  which  roared  hoarsely  in  the  wind. 
Where  could  Claire  be  ?  On  any  ordinary  occa- 


60  BYE-WAYS 

sion  Renfrew  would  certainly  have  sought  for  her, 
but  to-night  something  held  him  back.  He  knew 
very  well  that  she  wished  to  be  alone,  that  some- 
thing was  closely  occupying  her  mind.  Whether 
she  was  still  brooding  over  the  event  of  the  after- 
noon, when  he  had  forcibly  led  her  away  in  the 
very  crisis  of  the  snake-charmer's  performance,  he 
could  not  tell.  To  an  ordinary  woman  such  a 
matter  would  have  been  a  trifle ;  but  Renfrew 
understood  that  Claire  felt  it  more  deeply.  Her 
mind  appeared  to  be  mysteriously  moved  and 
awakened  by  this  savage  from  the  depths  of 
Morocco.  Various  circumstances  combined  to 
render  him  more  interesting  to  her  than  he  could 
possibly  be  to  any  ordinary  traveller.  Renfrew 
recognised  that  fully  and  quietly.  The  genius  of 
Claire  had  enabled  her  to  realise  in  London  all 
the  wildly  picturesque  idiosyncrasies  of  a  man 
whom  she  had  never  seen  or  heard  of.  Suddenly 
fate  had  led  her  to  him,  and  she  had  beheld  her 
own  performance,  the  original  of  her  imitation. 
As  Renfrew  stood  by  the  fire,  he  began  to  feel  the 
folly  of  his  proceeding  of  the  afternoon,  and  to 
imagine  more  clearly  than  before  the  condition  into 
which  it  had  thrown  Claire.  It  is  a  sin  to  disturb 
the  contemplations  of  genius.  It  is  sacrilege. 
And  then  Renfrew  had  been  moved  to  his  act  by  a 
preposterous  access  of  jealousy.  He  acknowledged 
this  to  himself.  He  had  been  jealous  of  Claire's 
interest  in  this  man's  performance,  jealous  perhaps 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       61 

even  of  her  dream  among  the  hills  in  the  midnight 
camp,  where  the  man  stood  before  her  sleeping  eyes, 
and  played  with  his  visionary  serpent.  How  mad 
can  £  lover  be  ?  He  resolved  to  go  to  Claire,  and 
ask  her  pardon.  This  resolve  thrilled  him.  To 
carry  it  out,  he  would  have  to  draw  very  near  to 
Claire,  to  unpack  his  heart  to  her.  After  all,  she 
had  given  herself  to  him.  But  he  had  appreciated 
the  wonder  of  his  role  as  possessor  so  keenly,  that 
he  had  waited  upon  her  moods  with  an  almost 
trembling  awe.  Now,  in  asking  pardon,  he  would 
show  that  in  his  passion  he  could  be  strong. 
Women  want  to  see  the  man  in  the  lover,  as  well 
as  the  devotee.  Renfrew,  in  acknowledging  his 
jealousy  of  a  black  savage,  meant  to  clasp  Claire 
with  the  arms  of  a  whirlwind. 

Meanwhile  she  was  hidden  from  him.  The 
wind  blew  strongly.  The  sparks  leaped  away  in 
clouds  toward  the  sea.  From  the  dense  darkness 
behind  him  came  a  sound  of  music.  The  soldiers 
were  feasting.  The  porters  were  striking  the  lute, 
and  singing  songs  of  the  dance  and  of  love  and  of 
victory.  It  was  a  night  of  comradeship  and  of  re- 
joicing. Yet  he  stood  alone ;  and  the  turmoil  of 
his  heart  was  unheeded.  He  tried  to  explore  the 
blackness  of  the  night  which  stood  round  the  golden 
fire  with  his  eyes.  Claire  must  be  in  that  blackness 
close  to  him.  Doubtless  she  saw  him,  a  red  and 
yellow  creature,  painted  into  fictitious  brilliance  by 
the  illumination  which  was  shed  upon  him.  She 


62  BYE-WAYS 

saw  him  and  kept  from  him.  Renfrew  resolved  to 
be  patient.  When  her  mood  of  reserve  died  she 
would  come  to  him,  in  her  dress  of  a  Moor,  and 
he  would  kiss  the  white  face  beneath  the  hood, 
and  put  his  arms  round  the  thin  figure  that  was 
lost  in  the  djelabe  of  brawny  Absalem,  and  tell  her 
the  true  story  of  his  heart,  never  fully  told  to  her 
yet.  He  squatted  down  before  the  fire,  lit  his  pipe, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  against  the  tempest  from 
the  mountains,  and  waited,  listening  to  the  weird 
music  that  swept  by  him  like  a  hidden  bird  on  the 
wind. 

And  Claire  —  where  was  she  ?  When  Absalem 
wrapped  her  in  the  huge  djelabe  it  seemed  to  Claire 
that  he  had  divined  her  secret  longing  to  be  in  hiding. 
She  disappeared  into  the  mighty  hood  of  the  gar- 
ment as  into  a  cave.  Its  shadow  concealed  her 
from  the  watching  eyes  of  Renfrew.  There  was 
warmth  in  it  and  a  beautiful  darkness.  She  desired 
both.  She  saw  Renfrew  turn  to  watch  the  leaping 
soldiers,  and  stole  away  out  of  the  illuminated  circle 
formed  by  the  glow  from  the  fire,  into  the  night 
beyond.  She  did  not  go  far,  only  into  the  nearest 
shadow.  And  there  she  sat  down  on  the  short  dry 
grass,  and  forgot  Renfrew,  the  roaring  flames,  the 
wind  that  felt  incessantly  at  her  robe,  the  shouting 
guard,  the  radiant  and  dancing  attendants.  She  for- 
got them  all  as  completely  as  if  they  had  never  been 
in  her  life ;  for  the  strangeness  of  certain  incidents 
preoccupied  her,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       63 

In  the  double  existence  of  a  really  great  actress 
there  are  many  moments  in  which  the  truths  of  the 
imagination  seem  more  important  than  the  truths 
of  physical  phenomena  of  things  seen  by  the  eye, 
of  sounds  received  and  appreciated  by  the  ear.  In 
these  moments,  genius  usurps  the  throne  of  reason, 
and  the  mind  beholds  fancies  as  sunlit  gods,  facts 
as  timid  and  scarcely  defined  shadows.  So  it  was 
with  Claire  now.  Even  the  snake-charmer,  as  he 
gave  his  performance  in  the  Soko,  was  a  shadow  in 
comparison  with  that  man  who  summoned  her  to 
the  tent  door  in  the  solitary  encampment.  And 
behind  and  beyond  both  these  figures  of  truth  and 
dreaming  stood  a  third,  created  for  herself  by  Claire 
in  London,  that  figure  into  whom  she  had  poured 
her  soul  as  into  a  mould,  when  she  charmed  im- 
aginary serpents,  and  prayed  to  the  god  in  whom, 
for  a  moment,  she  believed  with  the  passion  of 
the  perfect  mime.  This  trio  Claire  placed  in  line, 
and  reviewed  :  charmer  of  her  imagination,  of  her 
dream,  of  the  Soko. 

They  were  the  same,  and  yet  not  the  same. 
For  the  first  was  dominated,  even  was  created  by 
her.  The  second  stood  above  her,  like  some 
magician,  and  summoned  her  as  one  possessing  a 
right.  The  third  — what  of  him  ?  He  was  a  wild 
creature  of  blood  and  foam,  crafty,  a  player  lika 
herself,  a  maker  of  money,  a  savage  in  sacking,  and 
almost  nothing  to  her  now.  Out  of  the  desert  he 
came.  Into  the  desert  he  was,  perhaps,  even  now, 


64  BYE-WAYS 

returning,  with  his  snakes  sleeping  in  his  bosom, 
and  the  money  of  the  Tetuan  Moors  jingling  in 
his  pouch. 

Yes,  she  saw  him,  travelling  like  a  shadow  in 
the  night,  one  of  those  grotesques  which  leap  on 
bedroom  walls  when  a  lamp  flares  in  the  wind  that 
sighs  through  an  open  casement.  He  was  going ; 
but  the  man  of  the  dream  remained.  The  dream 
man  had  come  up  out  of  the  world  that  is  vaguer 
to  us  than  the  desert  when  we  wake,  and  clearer 
to  us  than  the  desert  when  we  sleep.  Claire  saw 
him  still,  and,  while  the  wonderful  mountebank  of 
the  Soko  passed,  he  stood  in  the  tent  door  like  a 
statue  of  ebony,  a  rooted  reality.  And  the  snake 
was  in  his  bosom;  and  the  pipe  was  at  his  lips; 
and  the  power  was  in  his  heart.  And  as  he  played, 
Claire  thought  beneath  the  djelabe  of  Absalem, 
there  came  to  him,  with  the  faltering  steps  of  a 
thing  irresistibly  charmed,  that  third  man  whose  soul 
she  had  seen  in  London,  like  approaching  like, 
with  the  manner  of  a  slave  and  the  glance  of  the 
conquered.  And  her  soul  was  still  within  that 
charmed  figure.  She  could  not  rescue  it  now  from 
the  place  where  she  had  put  it.  And  the  statue  at 
the  tent  door  played  the  irresistible  melody  until 
his  wild  and  cringing  double  stole  to  his  very  feet, 
and  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  melted  together, 
and  where  two  men  had  been,  there  was  only  one. 
He  smiled  with  a  subtle  triumph,  laid  down  his 
pipe,  stretched  out  his  arms  and  vanished.  But 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       65 

within  him  now  was  the  soul  of  Claire,  borne 
wherever  he  should  go,  his  captive,  his  possession 
for  all  eternity. 

Behind  her,  in  the  cloudy  darkness,  Claire  heard 
a  movement,  and  the  gliding  of  soft  feet  on  grass. 
She  did  not  turn  her  head,  supposing  that  one  of 
the  soldiers  was  keeping  his  guard.  The  move- 
ment ceased.  But  the  little  noise  had  broken  the 
thread  on  which  her  fancies  were  strung.  They 
were  scattered  like  beads.  She  found  herself  feel- 
ing quite  ordinary,  and  listening  with  an  urging 
attention  for  a  renewal  of  the  trifling  noise  behind 
her.  In  the  distance  she  could  see  Renfrew,  now 
crouching  before  the  fire,  which  poured  colour  and 
a  piercing  vitality  upon  him.  She  heard  also,  and 
for  the  first  time,  the  sound  of  the  porters'  music, 
which  had  been  audible  in  the  night  all  through  her 
reverie,  though  she  was  entirely  unaware  of  the 
fact.  She  realised  that  the  soldiers  were  devouring 
the  stew  of  mutton,  and  that  she  was  in  a  gay  camp, 
full  of  human  beings  in  a  state  of  unusual  satisfac- 
tion. One  of  these  human  beings  must  be  close 
to  her.  She  turned  her  head.  But  she  was  sitting 
in  the  darkness  beyond  the  illumination  of  the  fire, 
and  beyond  her  the  night  was  like  a  black  wall. 
Whatever  had  moved  there  was  invisible  to  her. 
She  had  not  heard  the  gliding  step  go  away,  and 
she  felt  that  she  was  not  alone.  This  feeling 
began  to  render  her  uneasy.  She  got  up,  with  the 
intention  of  returning  to  the  firelight  and  to  Ren- 
5 


66  BYE-WAYS 

frew.  Indeed  she  had  taken  a  step  or  two  in  his 
direction,  when  she  was  checked  by  an  unreason- 
able desire  to  see  who  had  come  so  close  to  her, 
who  had  broken  her  reverie.  Acting  upon  the 
sudden  impulse,  she  turned  swiftly  and  came  on 
into  the  darkness.  Almost  instantly  she  stood 
before  the  dim  outline  of  a  man,  and  paused.  Here 
in  the  night  it  was  very  lonely,  even  though  the 
illuminated  camp  was  so  near.  Claire  hesitated  to 
approach  this  man  who  seemed  to  be  on  watch  and 
who  was  perfectly  motionless.  She  waited  a  mo- 
ment, wishing  that  he  would  come  to  her  in  order 
that  she  might  see  what  he  was  like,  whether  he 
carried  a  gun  and  was  a  soldier.  But  it  was  soon 
evident  that  he  did  not  mean  to  move.  Then 
Claire  went  up  so  close  to  him  that  his  coarse 
garment  rubbed  against  her  djelabe  and  his  eyes 
stared  right  down  into  hers.  And  she  saw  that  it 
was  the  snake-charmer  from  the  Soko,  who  was 
looking  into  her  face  with  the  very  smile  of  the 
man  in  her  dream.  Round  his  bare  throat  one 
of  his  snakes  was  twined,  and  he  held  its  neck 
between  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  The  wind 
tossed  his  short  and  ragged  cloak  wildly  to  and  fro, 
and  whirled  the  long  lock  of  hair  at  the  back  of  his 
shaven  head  about,  and  made  it  dance  like  a  living 
thing.  When  Claire  came  up  to  him,  he  never 
said  a  word,  or  moved  at  all.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  his  face  was  that  of  some  dark  and  triumphant 
being,  waiting  immovably  for  something  that  was 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       67 

certain  to  come  to  him,  and  to  come  so  close  that 
he  need  not  even  stretch  out  his  hand  to  take  it  as 
his  possession.  What  was  the  thing  he  waited  for  ? 
She  looked  at  his  black  face  and  at  the  snake  which 
moved  slowly,  trying  to  thrust  its  way  downward 
ir  ;o  the  warmth  of  his  bosom,  out  of  the  reach  of 
tne  wind  and  of  the  night.  And,  when  the  man's 
fingers  unclosed  to  release  it,  and  it  slid  away  and 
softly  disappeared  beneath  his  garment,  Claire 
shuddered  under  the  influence  of  a  sensation  that 
was  surely  mad.  For  she  felt  that  she  envied  the 
snake,  and  that  the  charmer  was  waiting  there  in 
the  darkness  for  her.  As  the  snake  vanished, 
Claire  recoiled  towards  the  fire.  The  charmer 
did  not  attempt  to  follow  her,  and  his  huge  and 
watchful  figure  quickly  faded  from  Claire's  eyes  till 
his  blackness  had  become  one  with  the  blackness 
of  the  night. 

IV 

RENFREW,  as  he  crouched  before  the  fire,  felt  a 
light  touch  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up,  saw 
Claire's  white  face  peering  down  on  him,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming,  that  you  had 
deserted  me  altogether,  and  left  me  lonely  in  the 
midst  of  the  fantasia,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  hands. 

" 1  am  cold,"  she  said  ;  "  horribly  cold.  Let 
me  sit  beside  you,  close  to  the  fire." 


68  BYE-WAYS 

She  sat  down  on  the  ground,  almost  touching 
the  roaring  flames. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Sitting  in  the  dark.    The  soldiers  are  feasting  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  the  camp  fellows  are  all  singing  and 
playing.  Don't  you  hear  them  ?  We  are  quite 
alone.  That 's  all  I  want,  all  I  care  for.  Claire, 
when  you  go  away  like  this,  and  leave  me,  even 
for  a  few  minutes,  Morocco  is  the  most  desolate 
place  in  all  the  world,  and  I  'm  the  most  desolate 
vagabond  in  it." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her.  The  terrific  glow 
from  the  fire  played  over  her  face,  danced  in  the 
deep  folds  of  her  djelabe,  shone  in  her  eyes,  show- 
ered a  cloud  of  gold  and  red  about  her  hair.  For 
she  had  let  her  hood  fall  down  on  her  shoulders. 
She  attained  to  that  fine  and  almost  demoniacal 
picturesqueness  which  glorifies  even  the  most 
commonplace  smith  when  you  see  him  in  his  forge 
by  night.  Her  cheeks  were  suffused  with  scarlet, 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  painted  them  to  go  on 
the  stage.  Yet  she  shivered  again  as  Renfrew 
spoke. 

"You  should  not  have  left  the  fire,"  he  said. 
"  And  yet  the  wind  is  warm." 

"  It  can't  be.  But  it 's  not  the  wind,  it 's  the 
darkness  that  has  chilled  me." 

"  Or  is  it  the  loneliness  ? "  he  asked,  tenderly. 
"  For  you  have  been  alone  as  well  as  I,  and  noth- 
ing on  earth  makes  one  so  cold  as  solitude." 


THE    CHARMER    OF    SNAKES       69 

"  I  scarcely  ever  feel  alone,  Desmond,"  she  said. 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  cast  a  glance  behind  her 
into  the  darkness  from  which  she  had  just  come. 
Renfrew  noticed  it. 

"  You  have  been  alone  ? "  he  asked  hastily. 
Then  he  checked  himself  with  an  ashamed  laugh. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am,"  he  exclaimed. 

He  clasped  her  more  closely. 

"  A  fool,  because  I  'm  so  desperately  in  love  with 
you,  Claire,"  he  said,  rushing  on  his  confession 
with  the  swiftness  of  alarmed  bravery.  "  Look 
here,  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  You  must 
put  everything  I  do,  everything  I  am,  down  to  the 
account  of  my  love,  —  shyness,  anger,  abruptness, 
violence,  —  everything,  Claire.  My  love  's  respon- 
sible. It  does  play  the  devil  with  an  ordinary  man 
when  he 's  given  his  very  soul  to  —  to  a  woman 
like  you,  to  a  great  woman.  It  keeps  him  back 
when  he  ought  to  go  on,  and  sends  him  on  when 
he  ought  to  stay  quiet,  and  makes  him  jealous  of 
stones  and  —  and  savages." 

"  Savages,  Desmond  ?  " 

Renfrew's  face  was  scarlet.  He  put  up  his  hand 
before  it  and  muttered  :  — 

"  This  fire  's  scorching.  Yes,  Claire,  of  sav- 
ages. Did  n't  you  find  that  out  this  afternoon, 
when  we  were  in  Tetuan  ?  But  of  course  you 
could  n't.  You  could  n't  know  you  'd  married 
such  an  infernal  lunatic." 

He  broke  off.     She  was  watching  him  with  a 


70  BYE-WAYS 

close  attention,  and  her  body  had  ceased  to  tremble 
under  his  arm. 

"  Go  on,  Desmond." 

"You  want  me  to  tell  you  the  sort  of  man 
you  've  married  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"  Then  I  will.  Claire,  this  afternoon  I  took 
you  away  from  that  snake-charming  chap  because 
—  well,  because  you  watched  him  as  if  he  fasci- 
nated you." 

"  Oh ! " 

"  Of  course  I  knew  why.  His  performance 
was  clever,  and  he  was  picturesque  in  his  way, 
although,  to  be  sure,  it  was  all  put  on,  as  far  as 
that  goes." 

"  Like  my  stage  performances,  Desmond." 

"  Claire,"  he  said  hotly.     "  How  can  you  ?  " 

"  That  man  acts  far  better  than  I  do  —  if  he 
acts  at  all." 

"  Was  that  why  he  interested  you  so  much  ? " 

"  In  what  other  way  could  he  interest  me  ?  " 

Renfrew  kicked  at  one  of  the  blazing  logs  and 
sent  up  a  shower  of  red-hot  flakes. 

"  Well,  there  was  your  dream,  Claire." 

"  Yes,  there  was  that." 

"  It  was  curious,  coming  just  before  we  saw  the 
fellow.  And  you  say  the  two  men  were  alike." 

"  I  did  not  say  alike.     I  said  the  same." 

"  How  could  that  be  ?  " 

"  How    can   a    thousand  things  be  ?     Yet  we 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       71 

cannot  deny  them  when  they  are,  any  more  than 
we  can(  deny  that  we  feel  an  earthly  immortality 
within  us  and  yet  crumble  into  dust.  In  sleep  I 
saw  that  man.  I  saw  his  snake.  I  heard  him 
play." 

"  Yes,  Claire,  I  know.     It 's  damned  strange." 

Renfrew's  forehead  was  wrinkled  in  a  medita- 
tive frown. 

"  But,  after  all,  what 's  a  dream  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  A  vagary  of  a  sleeping  brain.  And  in  your 
dream  you  would  n't  go  to  that  beggar,  Claire." 

"  No.     I  would  n't  go,  and  so  I  died." 

"  It  all  means  nothing —  nothing  at  all." 

She  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"  I  wonder  whether  there  are  things  in  life  that 
we  are  compelled  to  do,  Desmond,"  she  said.  "  I 
sometimes  think  there  must  be.  How  otherwise 
can  a  thousand  strange  events  be  accounted  for, 
especially  things  that  women  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  muttered,  staring  at  her 
anxiously  in  the  firelight. 

"  Every  one  acknowledges  the  irresistible  power 
of  physical  force  over  physical  weakness.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  when  the  world  has  grown  a  little 
older,  we  shall  all  understand  that  the  power  of 
mental  force  is  precisely  similar,  and  can  as  little 
be  resisted.  What 's  that  ?  " 

Renfrew  felt  that  she  was  suddenly  alert.  Her 
thin  form  grew  hard  and  quivering,  like  the  body 
of  a  greyhound  about  to  be  let  loose  on  a  hare. 


72  BYE-WAYS 

He  heard  nothing  except  a  sound  of  music  from 
the  darkness,  and  the  gentle  rustle  of  the  wind. 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  he  said.  "  What  was  it  —  a 
cry  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Desmond  —  hush  !  " 

He  was  obedient,  and  strained  his  ears,  wonder- 
ing what  Claire  had  heard.  The  fire  was  at  last 
beginning  to  die  down,  for  the  flames  had  devoured 
the  masses  of  dry  twigs,  and  had  now  nothing  to 
feed  upon  except  the  heavy  logs.  So  the  darkness 
drew  a  little  closer  round  the  camp,  as  if  the  night 
expanded  noiselessly.  One  of  the  porters,  or, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  soldiers,  was  playing  a  queer 
little  air  upon  a  pipe  over  and  over  again.  It  was 
plaintive  and  very  soft.  But  the  tone  of  the  in- 
strument was  strangely  penetrating,  and  the  wind 
carried  it  along  over  the  plain,  as  if  anxious  to  bear 
it  to  the  sea,  that  the  cave  men  might  hear  it,  and 
the  sailors  bearing  up  for  the  Spanish  coast.  Was 
Claire  listening  to  this  odd  little  tune  ?  Renfrew 
wondered.  There  seemed  no  other  sound.  She 
was  moving  uneasily  now,  as  if  an  intense  restless- 
ness had  taken  hold  of  her.  And  she  turned  her 
head  away  from  him  and  gazed  into  the  night. 

Presently  she  put  her  hand  on  Renfrew's  arm, 
which  was  still  round  her  waist,  and  tried  to  re- 
move it.  But  he  would  not  yield  to  her  desire. 
He  only  held  her  closer,  and  again  —  he  could 


THE    CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       73 

not  tell  why  —  the  smouldering  jealousy  began  to 
flare  up  in  his  heart. 

"  No,  Claire,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  move- 
ment, "  you  are  mine.  You  have  given  yourself 
to  me.  I  alone  have  the  right  to  keep  you,  to 
hold  you  close  —  close  to  my  heart." 

"  Can  you  keep  me  always,  Desmond  ?  "  she 
said,  suddenly  turning  on  him  with  a  sort  of  fierce 
excitement. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  as  if  she  would  search 
the  very  depths  of  his  soul  for  strength,  for  power. 

"  You  have  the  right.  Yes  ;  but  that  is  nothing 
—  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  Claire  ?  " 

"  You  must  have  the  strength,  Desmond.  That 
is  everything." 

There  was  a  look  almost  of  despair  in  her  face. 
She  threw  herself  against  him  as  if  moved  by  a 
sudden  yearning  for  protection,  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  shoulders. 

The  hidden  Moor  was  still  playing  the  same 
monotonous  little  tune,  an  African  aria,  as  wild 
as  a  bird  that  flies  over  the  desert,  or  a  cloud  that 
is  driven  across  the  sky  above  a  dangerous  sea.  It 
was  imaginative,  and,  as  all  tunes  seem  to  have  a 
shape,  this  melody  was  misshapen  and  yet  delicious, 
like  a  twisted  tangled  creature  that  has  the 
smile  of  a  sweet  woman,  or  the  eyes  of  an  alluring 
child.  In  its  plaintiveness  there  was  the  atmos- 
phere of  solitary  places.  And  there  was  a  sound 


74 


BYE-WAYS 


of  love  in  it,  too,  but  of  a  love  so  uncivilised  as  to 
be  almost  monstrous.  Some  earth  man  of  a  dead 
age  might  have  sung  it  to  his  mate  in  a  land  where 
the  sun  looked  down  on  things  primeval.  It  might 
have  caught  the  heart  of  maidens  very  long  ago, 
before  they  learned  to  think  of  passion  as  the  twin 
of  law,  and  to  regard  a  kiss  as  the  seal  set  upon 
the  tape  of  matrimony.  The  queer  sorrow  of  it 
could  hardly  have  moved  any  eyes  to  tears.  Yet 
few  women  could  have  heard  it  without  a  sense  of 
desolation.  It  ran  through  the  darkness  as  cold 
water  runs  in  the  black  shadow  of  a  forest,  a 
trickle  of  sound  as  thin  and  persistent  as  the  cry 
of  a  wild  creature  in  the  night. 

Renfrew  thrilled  under  the  touch  of  Claire's  hand. 

"  You  can  give  me  the  strength  every  woman 
seeks  in  the  man  she  yields  herself  up  to,"  he 
said. 

"  How  ? " 

"  By  loving  me." 

"  Ah,  yes.  But  the  strength  must  not  come, 
however  subtly,  from  the  woman.  No  —  no." 

Again  she  leaned  away  from  him,  with  her  face 
turned  towards  the  darkness.  Tremors  ran  through 
her,  and  her  hands  dropped  almost  feebly  from 
Renfrew's  shoulders,  as  the  hands  of  an  invalid  fall 
away,  and  down,  after  an  embrace. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  reiterated,  and  her  voice  was 
almost  a  wail.  "  It  must  be  there,  in  the  man, 
part  of  him,  whether  he  is  with  the  woman  in  the 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       75 

night,  or  alone —  far  off —  in  the  jungle,  or  in 
the  - —  the  desert.  He  must  have  the  strange 
strength  that  comes  from  solitude.  Where  can  the 
men  of  our  country  find  that  now  ?  " 

"They  find  strength  in  the  clash  of  wills, 
Claire,  and  in  the  battles  of  love." 

"  Most  of  them  never  find  it  at  all,"  she  said, 
with  a  sort  of  sullen  resignation.  "  And  most  of 
the  women  do  not  want  it,  or  ask  for  it,  or  know 
what  it  is.  The  danger  is  when  some  accident 
or  some  fate  teaches  them  what  it  is.  Then  — 
then  —  " 

She  stopped,  and  glanced  at  Renfrew  suspi- 
ciously, as  if  she  had  so  nearly  betrayed  a  secret 
that  he  might,  nay,  must  have  guessed  it. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Then  they  seek  it 
away  from  —  ?  " 

"  Where  they  know  they  will  find  it,"  she  said, 
almost  defiantly. 

Renfrew's  face  grew  cold  and  rigid. 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  me,  Claire  ?  " 

"  What  is  true  of  some  women,  Desmond." 

He  was  silent.  Pain  and  fear  invaded  his 
heart ;  and,  by  degrees,  the  little  tune  played  by 
the  Moor  seemed  to  approach  him,  very  quietly, 
and  to  become  one  with  this  slow  agony.  Music, 
among  its  many  and  terrible  powers,  numbers  one 
that  is  scarcely  possessed  as  forcibly  by  any  other 
art.  It  can  glide  into  a  man  and  direct  his 
emotions  as  irresistibly  as  science  can  direct  the 


76  BYE-WAYS 

flow  of  a  stream.  It  can  penetrate  as  a  thing 
seen  cannot  penetrate.  For  that  which  is  in- 
visible is  that  which  is  invincible.  And  this  tune 
of  the  Moor,  while  it  added  to  Renfrew's  distress, 
touched  his  distress  with  confusion  and  bewilder- 
ment. At  first  he  did  not  realise  that  the  music 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  state  of  mind,  or  with 
the  growing  turmoil  of  his  heart  and  brain  ;  but 
he  felt  that  something  was  becoming  intolerable  to 
him,  and  pushing  him  on  in  a  dangerous  path. 
He  thought  it  was  the  statement  of  Claire  ;  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  stirred  by  an 
anger  against  her  that  was  horrible  to  him.  He 
released  her  from  his  arm. 

"  How  dare  you  say  that  to  me  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Do  you  understand  what  your  words  imply,  that 
—  Good  God  !  —  that  women  are  like  animals, 
creatures  without  souls,  running  to  the  feet  of  the 
master  who  has  the  whip  with  the  longest,  the 
most  stinging  lash  ?  Why,  such  a  creed  as  yours 
would  keep  men  savages,  and  kill  all  gentleness  out 
of  the  world.  Curse  that  chap  !  That  hideous 
music  of  his  —  " 

He  had  suddenly  become  aware  that  the  Moor's 
melody  added  something  to  his  torment.  At  his 
last  exclamation,  the  sullen  look  in  Claire's  pale 
face  gave  way  to  an  expression  of  fear  and  of 
startling  solicitude. 

"  Desmond,  you  are  putting  a  wrong  interpreta- 
tion on  what  I  said,"  she  began  hastily. 


THE    CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       77 

But  he  was  excited,  and  could  not  endure  any 
interruption. 

"  An3  you  imply  a  degrading  immorality  as  a 
prevailing  characteristic  of  women  too,"  he  went 
on,  "  that  they  should  leave  their  homes,  deny 
their  obligations,  because  they  find  elsewhere  — 
away,  out  in  some  dark  place  with  a  blackguard 
—  a  powerful  will  to  curb  them  and  keep  them 
down,  like  —  why,  like  these  wretched  women  all 
round  us  here  in  this  country,  • —  the  women  we 
saw  in  Tetuan  only  to-day,  veiled,  hidden,  loaded 
with  burdens,  worse  off  than  animals,  because 
their  masters  doubt  them,  and  would  not  dream  of 
trusting  them.  Claire,  there 's  something  bar- 
barous about  you." 

He  spoke  the  words  with  the  intonation  of  one 
who  thinks  he  is  uttering  an  insult.  But  she 
smiled. 

"  It 's  the  something  barbarous  about  me  that 
has  placed  me  where  I  am,"  she  said,  with  a  cold 
pride.  "  It  is  that  which  civilisation  worships  in 
me,  that  which  has  set  me  above  the  other  women 
of  my  time.  It  is  even  that  which  has  made  you 
love  me,  Desmond,  whether  you  know  it  or  not." 

He  looked  at  her  like  a  man  half  dazed. 

"  I  frighten  the  dove-cotes.  I  can  make  men 
tremble  by  my  outbursts  of  passion,  and  women 
faint  because  I  am  sad ;  and  even  the  stony-hearted 
sob  when  I  die.  And  I  can  make  you  love  me, 
Dosmond.  Yes,  perhaps  I  am  more  barbarous 


;8  BYE-WAYS 

than  other  women.  But  do  you  think  I  am  sorry 
for  it  ?  No." 

"Some  day  you  may  be,  Claire." 

He  spoke  more  gently.  The  wonder  and  wor- 
ship he  had  for  this  woman  stirred  in  him  again. 
While  she  had  been  speaking,  she  had  instinctively 
risen  to  her  feet,  and  she  stood  in  the  dull  red 
glow  of  the  waning  fire,  looking  down  at  him  as  if 
he  were  a  creature  in  a  lower  world  than  the  one 
in  which  she  could  walk  at  will. 

"  I  shall  never  choose  to  be  sorry,"  she  said, 
"  whatever  my  fate  may  be.  To  be  sorry  is  to 
be  feeble,  and  to  be  feeble  is  to  be  unfit  to  live, 
and  unfit  to  die.  Never,  never  think  of  me  as 
being  sorry  for  anything  I  have  done,  or  may  do. 
Never  deceive  yourself  about  me." 

A  great  log,  eaten  through  by  a  flame  at  its 
heart,  broke  gently  asunder  on  the  summit  of  the 
heaped  wood.  One  half  of  it,  red-hot,  and  alive 
with  multitudes  of  flickering  fires,  gold,  primrose, 
steel-blue,  and  deep  purple,  dropped  and  fell  at 
Claire's  feet.  She  glanced  down  at  it,  and  at 
Renfrew. 

"  My  deeds  may  burn  me  up,"  she  said,  "  as 
those  coloured  fires  burn  up  that  wood,  until  it  is 
no  longer  wood  but  fire  itself.  They  shall  never 
drench  me  with  wretched,  contemptible  tears." 

He  got  up ;  and,  when  he  was  on  his  feet,  he 
seemed  to  hear  the  incessant  music  more  clearly, 
blending  with  the  words  of  Claire.  The  notes 


THE    CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       79 

were  like  hot  sparks  falling  on  him.  He  winced 
under  themx  and  looked  round  almost  wildly. 
Then,  without  speaking,  he  hurried  away  in  the 
darkness  to  the  place  where  the  soldiers  were  feast- 
ing, and  the  men  of  the  camp  were  holding  theh 
fantasia.  Claire  divined  why  he  went.  She 
started  a  step  forward  as  if  to  try  and  stop  him ; 
but  his  movement  had  been  so  abrupt  that  she  was 
too  late.  She  had  to  let  him  go.  Her  hands  fell 
at  her  sides,  and  she  waited  by  the  dying  fire  in  the 
attitude  of  one  who  listens  intently.  The  soft 
melody  of  that  hidden  and  persistent  musician 
wailed  in  her  ears,  on  and  on.  It  came  again  and 
again,  never  ceasing,  never  altering  in  time.  And 
its  influence  upon  Claire  was  terrible  as  the  in- 
fluence of  the  dream  music  in  the  valley  beneath 
the  Kasbar.  She  longed  to  go  to  it.  She  seemed 
to  belong  to  it,  —  to  be  its  possession,  and  to  have 
erred  when  she  separated  herself  from  it.  In  the 
darkness  it  was  awaiting  her,  and  it  sent  out  its 
crying  voice  in  the  night  as  a  message,  as  a  sum- 
mons soft,  clear,  and  quietly  determined.  She 
clenched  her  hands  as  she  stood  by  the  fire.  She 
strove  to  root  her  feet  in  the  ground.  If  there  had 
been  anything  to  cling  to  just  then,  she  would 
have  stretched  forth  her  arms  and  clung  to  it,  resist- 
ing what  she  loved  from  fear  of  the  future.  But 
there  was  nothing.  And  she  thought  of  the  chil- 
dren and  of  the  Pied  Piper.  But  they  were  legend- 
ary beings  of  a  fable  long  ago.  And  she  thought 


80  BYE-WAYS 

of  Renfrew  and  of  his  love.  But  that  seemed 
nothing.  That  could  not  keep  her.  He  was  a 
pale  phantom,  and  her  career  was  a  handful  of  dust, 
and  her  name  was  as  the  name  graven  upon  a 
tomb,  and  her  life  was  but  as  a  gift  to  be  offered  to 
an  unknown  destiny,  —  while  that  melody  called 
to  her.  Had  any  one  seen  her  then  in  the  glow  of 
the  firelight,  she  would  have  seemed  to  him  terrible. 
For  suddenly  she  let  the  djelabe  of  Absalem  slip 
from  her  shoulders  to  the  ground.  And,  in  the 
fiercely  flickering  light,  that  makes  all  things  and 
people  assume  unearthly  aspects,  her  thin  figure  in 
its  white  robe  looked  like  the  white  body  of  a 
serpent,  erect  and  trembling,  under  the  influence  of 
the  charmer.  But  the  melody  grew  softer  and 
softer,  more  faint,  more  dreamy  in  the  darkness. 
Presently  it  ceased.  As  it  did  so,  Claire  drew 
a  deep  breath,  lifted  her  head  like  one  released 
from  a  thraldom,  and  turned  her  face  towards  the 
camp. 

Almost  directly  she  saw  Renfrew  returning 
towards  her.  He  looked  puzzled. 

"  It  was  n't  any  of  the  men  playing,"  he  said 
to  her. 

"  No  ?  " 

Claire  bent,  caught  up  the  djelabe  and  drew  it 
over  her. 

"  I  went  to  them,  and  found  them  listening  to 
some  story  Absalem  was  telling.  They  were  all 
gathered  close  round  him,  huddled  up  together  in 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       81 

the  dark.  And  the  piping  came  from  quite  an- 
other direction  —  not  from  the  soldiers  either.  It 
must  have  been  some  vagabond  out  of  Tetuan.  I 
was  just  going  to  make  a  search  for  him,  when  the 
noise  stopped.  He  must  have  heard  me  coming." 

He  still  looked  disturbed  and  angry,  and  this 
break  in  their  conversation  was  final.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  take  up  the  thread  of  it  again.  They 
stood  together  watching  the  fire  fade  away  till  it 
was  a  faint  glow  almost  level  with  the  ground. 
Then  at  last  Renfrew  spoke,  in  a  voice  that  was 
almost  timid. 

"  Claire,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  out  of  the  dull  twilight 
that  would  soon  be  darkness. 

"  If  I  have  said  anything  to-night  to  hurt  you, 
don't  think  of  it,  don't  remember  it.  I  don't 
know  —  I  don't  seem  to  have  been  like  myself 
to-night.  I  believe  that  cursed  music  irritated  me, 
so  ugly,  and  so  monotonous ;  it  got  right  on  my 
nerves,  I  think." 

«  Did  it  ?  " 

"  Without  my  knowing  it." 

He  felt  for  one  of  her  hands  and  clasped  it. 

"  Yes,  dear.  We  both  said  more  than  we  meant. 
Did  n't  we  ?  " 

Claire  did  not  assent ;  but  she  let  her  hand 
lie  in  his.  That  satisfied  him  then,  although  after- 

>  D 

wards  he  remembered  her  silence.     Soon  the  fire 

was  dead ;  and  they  said  good-night  in  the  wind, 

6 


82  BYE-WAYS 

which  seemed   colder  because  there  was  no  more 
light. 

Renfrew  went  to  his  tent,  undressed,  and  got 
into  bed.  The  wind  roared  against  the  canvas. 
But  the  pegs  had  been  driven  stoutly  into  the 
ground  by  the  porters,  and  held  the  cords  fast. 
He  felt  very  tired  and  depressed,  and  thought  he 
would  not  fall  asleep  quickly.  But  he  soon  began 
to  be  drowsy,  and  to  have  a  sense  of  dropping  into 
the  very  arms  of  the  tempest,  lulled  by  its  noise. 
He  slept  for  a  time.  Presently,  however,  and 
while  it  was  still  quite  dark,  he  woke  up.  He 
heard  the  wind  as  before,  but  was  troubled  by  an 
idea  that  some  other  sound  was  mingling  with  it, 
some  murmur  so  indistinct  that  he  could  not  de- 
cide what  it  was,  although  he  was  aware  of  it. 
He  sat  up  and  strained  his  ears,  and  wished  the 
wind  would  lull,  if  only  for  a  moment,  or  that  this 
other  sound  — which  had  surely  been  the  cause  of 
his  waking  —  would  increase,  and  stand  out  dis- 
tinctly in  the  night.  And,  at  last,  by  dint  of  listen- 
ing with  all  his  force,  Renfrew  seemed  to  himself 
to  compel  the  sound  to  greater  clearness.  Then 
he  knew  that  somewhere,  far  off  perhaps  in  the 
wind,  the  player  on  the  pipe  reiterated  his  soft  and 
stealthy  music.  It  was  swept  on  the  tempest  like 
a  drowning  thing  caught  in  a  whirlpool.  It  was  so 
faint  as  to  be  almost  inaudible.  But  in  all  its 
weakness  it  retained  most  completely  its  character, 


THE   CHARMER   OF   SNAKES       83 

and  made  the  same  impression  upon  Renfrew  as 
when  it  was  near  and  distinct.  It  irritated  and  it 
repelled  him.  And,  with  an  angry  exclamation,  he 
flung  himself  down  and  buried  his  head  in  the 
pillow,  stopping  his  ears  with  his  hands. 

With  daylight  the  camp  was  in  a  turmoil. 
Claire  was  gone.  Her  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 
She  had  not  undressed.  She  had  not  even  taken 
off  Absalem's  djelabe.  At  least  it  could  not  be 
found.  Renfrew,  frantic,  almost  mad  with  anxiety, 
explored  the  plain,  rode  at  a  gallop  to  the  gate  of 
the  city,  called  upon  the  Governor  of  Tetuan 
to  help  him  in  his  search,  and  summoned  the 
Consul  to  his  aid  in  his  despair.  Every  effort  was 
made  to  find  the  missing  woman  ;  but  no  success 
crowned  the  quest,  either  at  that  time,  or  afterwards, 
when  weeks  became  months,  and  months  grew  into 
years.  A  great  actress  was  lost  to  the  world. 
His  world  was  lost  to  Renfrew.  He  rode  back  at 
last  one  day  to  the  villas  of  Tangier,  bent  down 
upon  his  horse,  broken,  alone.  In  his  despair  he 
cursed  himself.  He  accused  himself  of  cruelty  to 
Claire  that  night  beside  the  African  fire,  when  he 
had  been  roused  to  a  momentary  anger  against  her. 
He  even  told  himself  that  he  had  driven  her  away 
from  him.  But  other  men,  who  had  known  Claire 
and  the  strangeness  of  her  caprices,  said  to  each 
other  that  she  had  got  tired  of  Renfrew  and  given 
him  the  slip,  wandering  away  disguised  in  the  djelabe 


84  BYE-WAYS 

of  a  Moor,  and  that  some  fine  day  she  would  turn 
up  again,  and  re-appear  upon  the  stage  that  had  seen 
her  glory. 

Later  on,  when  Renfrew  at  last,  after  long  search- 
ing, came  hopelessly  back  to  England,  so  changed 
that  his  friends  scarcely  recognised  him,  he  was 
sometimes  seized  with  strange  and  terrible  thoughts 
as  he  sat  brooding  over  the  wreck  of  his  love.  He 
seemed  to  see,  as  in  a  pale  vision  of  flame  and 
darkness,  a  little  dusky  Moorish  boy  bending  to 
smell  at  a  withered  sprig  of  orange  flower,  and  to 
remember  that  once  —  how  long  ago  it  seemed  — 
Claire  had  wished  to  kiss  that  boy  as  a  Moorish 
woman  might  have  kissed  him.  And  then  he  saw 
a  veiled  figure,  that  he  seemed  to  know  even  in 
its  deceitful  robe,  bend  down  to  the  boy.  And  the 
vision  faded.  At  another  time  he  would  hear  the 
little  tune  that  had  persecuted  him  in  the  night 
And  then  he  recalled  the  music  of  Claire's  dream, 
and  the  melody  that  charmed  the  snakes ;  and  he 
shuddered.  For  the  miracle  man  had  never  been 
seen  in  Tetuan  since  the  day  when  Claire  had 
watched  him  in  the  Soko.  Nor  could  Renfrew 
ever  find  out  whither  he  had  wandered. 

Very  long  afterwards,  however,  —  although  this 
fact  was  never  known  to  Renfrew,  —  two  Russian 
travellers  in  the  Great  Sahara  desert  witnessed  one 
evening,  as  they  sat  in  their  tent  door,  the  per- 
formance of  a  savage  charmer  of  snakes  who  carried 


THE    CHARMER    OF   SNAKES       85 

upon  his  body  three  serpents,  —  one  striped,  one 
black,  one  white.  And  the  younger  of  them 
noticed,  and  remarked  to  the  other,  that  the  charmer 
wore  half-way  up  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand  a 
thin  gold  circle  in  which  there  was  set  a  magnifi- 
cent black  pearl. 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS 


PRELUDE 

THE  matter  of  Carlounie,  the  village  of  Perth- 
shire in  Scotland,  is  become  notorious  in  the 
world.  The  name  of  its  late  owner,  his  remark- 
able transformation,  his  fortunate  career,  his 
married  life,  the  brooding  darkness  that  fell 
latterly  upon  his  mind,  the  flaming  deed  that  he 
consummated,  its  appalling  outcome,  and  the  find- 
ing of  him  by  Mr  Mackenzie,  the  minister  of  the 
parish  of  Carlounie,  sunk  in  a  pool  of  the  burn  that 
runs  through  a  "den"  close  to  his  house  —  all 
these  things  are  fresh  in  the  minds  of  many  men. 
It  has  been  supposed  that  he  had  discovered  a 
common  intrigue  between  his  wife,  Kate,  formerly 
an  hospital  nurse,  and  his  tenant,  Hugh  Fraser  of 
Piccadilly,  London.  It  has  been  universally  thought 
that  this  discovery  led  to  the  last  action  of  his  life. 
The  following  pages,  found  among  his  papers,  seem 
to  put  a  very  different  complexion  on  the  affair, 
although  they  suggest  a  mediaeval  legend  rather  than 
a  history  of  modern  days.  It  may  be  added  that  care- 
ful enquiries  have  been  made  among  the  inhabitants 
of  Carlounie,  and  that  no  man,  woman,  or  child  has 
been  discovered  who  ever  saw,  $r  heard  of,  the  grey 
traveller  mentioned  in  Alistair  Ralston's  narrative. 


9o  BYE-WAYS 


THE    STRANGER    BY    THE    BURN 

CAN  a  fever  change  a  man's  whole  nature,  giving 
him  powers  that  he  never  had  before  ?  Can  he 
go  into  it  impotent,  starved,  naked,  emerge  from  it 
potent,  satisfied,  clothed  with  possibilities  that  are 
wonders,  that  are  miracles  to  him  ?  It  must  be 
so ;  it  is  so.  And  yet  —  I  must  go  back  to  that 
sad  autumn  day  when  I  walked  beside  the  burn. 
Can  I  write  down  my  moods,  my  feelings  of  that 
day  and  of  the  following  days  ?  And  if  I  can, 
does  that  power  of  pinning  the  butterfly  of  my  soul 
down  upon  the  board  —  does  that  power,  too,  bud, 
blossom  from  a  soil  mysteriously  fertilised  by  ill- 
ness ?  Formerly,  I  could  as  easily  have  flown  in 
the  air  to  the  summit  of  cloud-capped  Schiehallion 
as  have  set  on  paper  even  the  smallest  fragment  of 
my  mind.  Now  —  well,  let  me  see,  let  me  still 
further  know  my  new,  my  marvellous  self. 

Yes,  that  first  day  !  It  was  Autumn,  but  only 
early  Autumn.  The  leaves  were  changing  colour 
upon  the  birch  trees,  upon  the  rowans.  At  dawn, 
mists  stood  round  to  shield  the  toilet  of  the  rising 
sun.  At  evening,  they  thronged  together  like  a 
pale  troop  of  shadowy  mutes  to  assist  at  his  depart- 
ure to  the  under  world.  It  was  a  misty  season, 
through  which  the  bracken  upon  the  hillsides  of 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS  91 

my  Carlounie  glowed  furtively  in  tints  of  brown 
and  of  orange  ;  and  my  mind,  my  whole  being, 
seemed  to  move  in  mists.  I  was  just  twenty-two, 
an  orphan,  master  of  my  estate  of  Carlounie,  a 
Scotch  laird,  and  my  own  governor.  And  some 
idiots  envied  me  then,  as  many  begin  to  envy  me 
now.  I  even  remember  one  ghastly  old  man  who 
clapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and,  with  the  addition 
of  an  unnecessary  oath,  swore  that  I  was  "  a  lucky 
youngster."  I,  with  my  thin,  chetif  body,  my 
burning,  weakly,  starved,  and  yet  ambitious  soul 
—  lucky  !  I  remember  that  I  broke  into  a  harsh 
laugh,  and  longed  to  kill  the  babbling  beast. 

And  it  was  the  next  day,  in  the  afternoon, 
that  I  took  that  book  —  my  Bible  —  and  went 
forth  alone  to  the  long  den  in  which  the  burn 
hides  and  cries  its  presence.  Yes,  I  took  Goethe's 
"  Faust,"  and  my  own  complaining  spirit,  and  went 
out  into  the  mist  with  my  misty,  clouded  mind. 
My  cousin  Gavin  wanted  me  to  go  out  shooting. 
He  laughed  and  rallied  me  upon  my  ill-luck  on  the 
previous  day,  when  I  had  gone  out  and  been  the 
joke  of  my  own  keepers  because  I  had  missed 
every  bird ;  and  I  turned  and  railed  at  him,  and 
told  him  to  leave  me  to  myself.  And,  as  I  went,  I 
heard  him  muttering, "  That  wretched  little  fellow ! 
To  think  that  he  should  be  owner  of  Carlou- 
nie !  "  Now,  he  sings  another  tune. 

With  "  Faust "  in  my  hand,  and  hatred  in  my 
heart,  I  went  out  into  the  delicately  chilly  air, 


92  BYE-WAYS 

down  the  winding  ways  of  the  garden,  through 
the  creaking  iron  gateway.  I  emerged  on  to  the 
wilder  land,  irregular,  grass-covered  ground,  strewn 
with  grey  granite  boulders,  among  which  coarse, 
wiry  ferns  grew  sturdily.  The  blackfaced  sheep 
whisked  their  broad  tails  at  me  as  I  passed,  then 
stooped  their  ever-greedy  mouths  to  their  damp 
and  eternal  meal  again.  I  heard  the  thin  and 
distant  cry  of  a  hawk,  poised  somewhere  up  in  the 
mist.  The  hills,  clothed  in  the  death-like  glory  of 
the  bracken,  loomed  around  me,  like  some  phan- 
tom, tricked-out  procession  passing  through  deso- 
late places.  And  then  I  heard  the  voice  of  the 
burn  —  that  voice  which  is  even  now  for  ever  in 
my  ears.  To  me  that  day  it  was  the  voice  of  one 
alive  ;  and  it  is  the  voice  of  one  alive  to  me  now. 
I  descended  the  sloping  hill  with  my  lounging, 
weak-kneed  gait,  at  which  the  creatures  who  called 
me  master  had  so  often  looked  contemptuously 
askance.  (I  was  often  tired  at  that  time.)  I 
descended,  I  say,  until  I  reached  the  edge  of  the 
tree-fringed  den,  and  the  burn  was  noisy  in  my 
ears.  I  could  see  it  now,  leaping  here  and  there 
out  of  its  hiding-place  —  ivory  foam  among  the 
dripping  larches,  and  the  birches  with  their  silver 
stems ;  ivory  foam  among  the  deep  brown  and 
flaming  orange  of  the  bracken,  and  in  that  foam  a 
voice  calling — calling  me  to  come  down  into  its 
hiding-place,  presided  over  by  the  mists  —  to  come 
down  into  its  hiding-place,  away  from  men  :  away 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS  93 

from  the  living  creatures  whom  I  hated  because  I 
envied  them,  because  they  were  stronger  than  I, 
because  they  could  do  what  I  could  not  do,  say 
what  I  could  not  say.  Gavin,  Dr  Wedderburn, 
my  tenants,  the  smallest  farm  boy,  the  grooms,  the 
little  leaping  peasants — I  hated,  I  hated  them  all. 
And  then  I  obeyed  the  voice  of  the  ivory  foam,  and 
I  went  down  into  the  hiding-place  of  the  burn. 

It  ran  through  strange  and  secret  places  where 
the  soft  mists  hung  in  wet  wreaths.  I  seemed  to 
be  in  another  world  when  I  was  in  its  lair.  On 
the  sharply  rising  banks  stood  the  sentinel  trees 
like  shadows,  some  of  them  with  tortured  and  tor- 
mented shapes.  As  I  turned  and  looked  straight 
up  the  hill  of  the  burn's  descending  course,  the 
mountain  from  which  it  came  closed  in  the  pros- 
pect inexorably.  A  soft  gloom  hemmed  us  in  — 
me  and  the  burn  which  talked  to  me.  We  two 
were  out  of  the  world  which  I  hated  and  longed  to 
have  at  my  feet.  Yes,  we  were  in  another  world, 
full  of  murmuring  and  of  restful  unrest ;  and  now 
that  I  was  right  down  at  the  water-side,  the  ivory 
face  of  my  friend,  the  ivory  lips  that  spoke  to  me, 
the  ivory  heart  that  beat  against  my  heart  —  so 
sick  and  so  weary  —  were  varied  and  were  changed. 
As  thoughts  streak  a  mind,  the  clear  amber  of 
the  pools  among  the  rocks  streaked  the  continu- 
ous foam  that  marked  the  incessant  leaps  taken  by 
the  water  towards  the  valley.  The  silence  of 
those  pools  was  brilliant,  like  the  pauses  for  con- 


94  BYE-WAYS 

templation  in  a  great  career  of  action  ;  and  their 
silence  spoke  to  me,  mingling  mysteriously  with 
the  voice  of  the  foam.  The  course  of  the  burn 
is  broken  up,  and  attended  by  rocks  that  have 
been  modelled  by  the  action  of  the  running  water 
into  a  hundred  shapes.  Some  are  dressed  in 
mosses,  yellow  and  green,  like  velvet  to  the  touch, 
and  all  covered  with  drops  of  moisture  ;  some  are 
gaunt  and  naked  and  deplorable,  with  sharp  edges 
and  dry  faces.  The  burn  avoids  some  with  a 
cunning  and  almost  coquettish  grace,  dashes 
brutally  against  others,  as  if  impelled  by  an  inter- 
nal violence  of  emotion.  Others,  again,  it  caresses 
quite  gently,  and  would  be  glad  to  linger  by,  if 
Nature  would  allow  the  dalliance.  And  this  army 
of  rocks  helps  to  give  to  the  burn  its  charm  of  infi- 
nite variety,  and  to  fill  its  voice  with  a  whole  gamut 
of  expression ;  for  the  differing  shape  of  each 
boulder,  against  which  it  rushes  in  its  long  career, 
gives  it  a  different  note.  It  flickers  across  the 
small  and  round  stone  with  the  purling  cry  of  a 
child.  From  the  stone  curved  inwards,  and  with 
a  hollow  bosom  it  gains  a  crooning,  liquid  melody. 
The  pointed  and  narrow  colony  of  rocks  which 
break  it  into  an  intricate  network  of  small  water 
threads,  toss  it,  chattering  frivolously,  towards  the 
dark  pool  under  the  birches,  where  the  trout  play 
like  sinister  shadows  and  the  insects  dance  in  the 
sombre  pomp  of  Autumn  ;  and  when  it  gains  a 
great  slab  that  serves  it  for  a  spring-board,  from 


A   TRIBUTE    OF    SOULS  95 

which  it  takes  a  mighty  leap,  its  voice  is  loud  and 
defiant,  and  shrieks  with  a  banshee  of  triumph  — 
in  which,  too,  there  is  surely  an  undercurrent  of 
wailing  woe.  Oh,  the  burn  has  many  voices 
among  the  rocks,  under  the  ferns  and  the  birch 
trees,  in  the  brooding  darkness  of  the  mists  and 
shadows,  between  the  steep  walls  of  the  green 
banks  that  hem  it  in  !  Many  voices  which  can 
sing,  when  they  choose,  one  song,  again  and  again 
and  —  monotonously  —  again  ! 

So  —  now  on  this  sad  Autumn  day  —  I  was 
with  the  burn  in  its  hiding-place,  cool,  damp,  fret- 
ful. Carlounie  sank  from  my  sight.  My  garden, 
the  wilder  land  beyond,  the  moors  on  which  yester- 
day my  incompetence  as  a  shot  had  roused  the  con- 
tempt of  my  cousin  and  of  my  hirelings  —  all  were 
lost  to  view.  I  was  away  from  all  men  in  this 
narrow,  tree-shrouded  cleft  of  a  world.  I  sat  down 
on  a  rock,  and,  stretching  out  my  legs,  rested  my 
heels  on  another  rock.  Beneath  my  legs  the  clear 
brown  water  glided  swiftly.  I  sat  and  listened  to 
its  murmur.  And,  just  then,  it  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  water  can  utter  words  like  men.  The 
murmur  was  suggestive  but  definitely  inarticulate. 
I  had  come  down  here  to  be  away  and  to  think. 
The  murmur  of  my  mind  spoke  to  the  murmur 
of  the  burn ;  and,  as  ever,  in  those  days,  it 
lamented  and  cursed  and  bitterly  complained. 

Why,  why  was  I  pursued  by  a  malady  of  incom- 
petence that  clung  to  both  mind  and  body  ?     (So 


96  BYE-WAYS 

ran  my  thoughts.)  Why  was  I  bruised  and  beaten 
by  Providence  ?  Why  had  I  been  given  a  soul 
that  could  not  express  itself  in  the  frame  of  a 
coward,  a  weakling,  a  thin,  nervous,  dwarfish,  al- 
most a  deformed,  creature  ?  If  my  soul  had  cor- 
responded exactly  to  my  body,  then  all  might  have 
been  well  enough.  I  should  have  been  more  com- 
plete, although  less,  in  some  way,  than  I  now  was. 
For  such  a  soul  would  have  accepted  cowardice, 
weakness,  inferiority  to  others  as  suitable  to  it,  as  a 
right  fate.  Such  a  soul  would  never  have  known 
the  meaning  of  the  word  rebellion,  would  never 
have  been  able  to  understand  its  own  cancer  of 
disease,  to  diagnose  the  symptoms  of  its  villainous 
and  creeping  malady.  It  would  never  have  aspired 
like  a  flame,  and  longed  in  vain  to  burn  clearly  and 
grandly  or  to  flicker  out  for  ever.  Rather  would 
such  a  soul  have  guttered  on  like  some  cheap  and 
ill-smelling  candle,  shedding  shadows  rather  than 
any  light,  ignorant  of  its  own  obscurity,  regardless 
of  the  possibilities  that  teem  like  waking  children 
in  the  wondrous  womb  of  life,  oblivious  of  the  con- 
tempt of  the  souls  around  it,  heedless  of  ambition, 
of  the  trumpet  call  of  success,  of  the  lust  to  be 
something,  to  do  something,  of  the  magic,  of  the 
stinging  magic  of  achievement.  With  such  a  soul 
in  my  hateful,  pinched,  meagre,  pallid  body  —  I 
thought,  sitting  thus  by  the  burn  —  I  might  have 
been  content,  an  utterly  low,  and  perhaps  an 
utterly  satisfied  product  of  the  fiend  creation. 


A   TRIBUTE    OF    SOULS  97 

But  my  soul  was  not  of  this  kind,  and  so  I  was 
the  most  bitterly  miserable  of  men.  God  —  or  the 
Devil  —  had  made  me  ill-shaped,  physically  des- 
picable, with  the  malign  sort  of  countenance  that 
so  often  accompanies  and  illustrates  a  bad  poor 
body.  My  limbs,  without  being  actually  twisted, 
were  shrunken  and  incompetent  —  they  would  not 
obey  my  desires  as  do  the  limbs  of  other  men. 
My  legs  would  not  grip  a  horse.  When  I  rode  I 
was  a  laughing-stock.  My  arms  had  no  swiftness, 
no  agility,  no  delicate  and  subtle  certainty.  When 
I  tried  to  box,  to  fence,  I  was  one  whirling,  jigging 
incapacity.  I  had  feeble  sight,  and  objects  pre- 
sented themselves  to  my  vision  so  strangely  that  I 
could  not  shoot  straight.  I,  Alistair  Ralston  the 
young  Laird  of  Carlounie !  When  I  walked  my 
limbs  moved  heavily  and  awkwardly.  I  had  no 
grace,  no  lightness,  no  ordinary,  quite  usual  compe- 
tence of  bodily  power.  And  this  was  bitter,  yet  as 
nothing  to  the  Marah  that  lay  beyond.  For  my 
body  was  in  a  way  complete.  It  was  a  wretch. 
But  when  you  came  to  the  mind  you  had  the  real 
tragedy.  In  many  decrepit  flesh  temples  there 
dwells  a  commanding  spirit,  as  a  great  God  might 
dwell  —  of  mysterious  choice  —  in  a  ruinous  and 
decaying  lodge  in  a  wilderness.  And  such  a  spirit 
rules,  disposes,  presides,  develops,  has  its  own  full 
and  superb  existence,  triumphing  not  merely  over, 
but  actually  through  the  contemptible  body  in 
which  it  resides,  so  that  men  even  are  led  to  wor- 
7 


98  BYE-WAYS 

ship  the  very  ugliness  and  poverty  of  this  body,  to 
adore  it  for  its  power  to  retain  such  a  mighty  spirit 
within  it.  Such  a  spirit  was  not  mine.  Had  it 
been,  I  might  have  been  happy  by  the  burn  that 
Autumn  day.  Had  it  been,  I  might  never  —  But  I 
am  anticipating,  and  I  must  not  anticipate.  I  must 
sit  with  the  brown  water  rushing  beneath  the  arch 
of  my  limbs,  and  recall  the  horror  of  my  musing. 

In  a  manner,  then,  my  soul  matched  my  body. 
It  was  feeble  and  incompetent  too.  My  brain  was 
dull  and  clouded.  My  intellect  was  sluggish  and 
inert.  But  —  and  this  was  the  terror  for  me  !  — 
within  the  rank  nest  of  my  soul  —  my  spirit  —  lay 
coiled  two  vipers  that  never  ceased  from  biting  me 
with  their  poisoned  fangs  —  Self-consciousness 
and  Ambition.  I  knew  myself,  and  I  longed  to 
be  other  than  I  was.  I  watched  my  own  incom- 
petence as  one  who  watches  from  a  tower.  I 
divined  how  others  regarded  me  —  precisely.  The 
blatant  and  comfortable  egoism  of  a  dwarf  mind  in 
a  dwarf  body  was  never  for  one  moment  mine.  I 
was  that  terrible  anomaly,  an  utterly  incomplete  and 
incompetent  thing  that  adored,  with  a  curious  wild- 
ness  of  passion,  completeness,  competence.  Nor 
had  I  a  soul  that  could  ever  be  satisfied  with  a  one- 
sided perfection.  My  desires  were  Gargantuan. 
When  I  was  with  my  cousin  Gavin,  a  fine  all-round 
sportsman,  I  longed  with  fury  to  be  a  good  shot, 
to  throw  a  fly  as  he  did,  to  have  a  perfect  seat  on 
a  horse.  I  felt  that  I  would  give  up  years  of  life 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS  99 

to  beat  him  once  in  any  of  his  pursuits.  When  I 
was  with  Dr  Wedderburn,  my  desires,  equally  in- 
tense, were  utterly  different.  He  represented  in 
my  neighbourhood  Intellect  —  with  a  capital  I. 
A  man  of  about  fifty,  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Carlounie,  he  was  astonishingly  adroit  as  a  contro- 
versialist, astonishingly  eloquent  as  a  divine.  His 
voice  was  full  of  music.  His  eyes  were  full  of 
light  and  of  the  most  superb  self-confidence.  He 
rested  upon  his  intellect  as  a  man  may  rest  upon  a 
rock.  The  power  of  his  personality  was  calm  and 
immense.  I  felt  it  vehemently.  I  shook  and 
trembled  under  it.  I  hated  and  loathed  the  man 
for  it,  because  I  wanted  and  could  never  possess 
it.  So,  too,  I  hated  my  cousin  Gavin  for  his  pos- 
sessions, his  long  and  sure-sighted  eyes,  great  and 
strong  arms,  broad  chest,  lithe  legs,  bright  agility. 
My  body  could  do  nothing.  My  soul  could  do 
nothing  —  except  one  great  thing.  It  could  fully 
observe  and  comprehend  its  own  impotence.  It 
could  fully  and  desperately  envy  and  pine  to  be 
what  it  could  never  be.  Could  never  be,  do  I 
say  ?  Wait !  Remember  that  is  only  what  I 
thought  then  as  I  sat  upon  the  rock,  and,  with 
haggard  young  eyes,  watched  the  clear  brown 
water  slipping  furtively  past  between  my  knees. 

My    disease    seemed   to  culminate   that   day,   I 
remember.      I  was  a  sick  invalid  alone  in  the  mist. 
Something  —  it  might  have  been  vitriol  —  was  eat 
ing  into  me,  eating,  eating  its  way  to  my  very  heart 


ioo  BYE- WAYS 

to  the  core  of  me.  Oh,  to  be  stunted  and  desire 
to  be  straight  and  tall,  to  be  dwarf  and  wish  to  be 
giant,  to  be  stupid  and  long  to  be  a  genius,  to  be 
ugly  and  yearn  to  be  in  face  as  one  of  the  shining 
gods,  to  have  no  power  over  men,  and  to  pine  to 
fascinate,  hold,  dominate  a  world  of  men  —  this 
indeed  is  to  be  in  hell !  I  was  in  hell  that  Au- 
tumn day.  I  clenched  my  thin,  weak  hands 
together.  I  clenched  my  teeth  from  which  the 
pale  lips  were  drawn  back  in  a  grin  ;  and  I  real- 
ised all  the  spectral  crowd  of  my  shortcomings. 
They  stood  before  me  like  demons  of  the  Bracken 
—  yes,  yes,  of  the  Bracken  !  —  and  I  cursed  God 
with  the  sound  of  the  burn  ringing  and  chattering 
in  my  ears.  And  I  devoted  Gavin,  Doctor  Wed- 
derburn,  every  man  highly  placed,  every  lowest 
peasant,  who  could  do  even  one  of  all  the  things 
I  could  not  do,  to  damnation.  The  paroxysm  that 
took  hold  of  me  was  like  a  fit,  a  convulsion.  I 
came  out  of  it  white  and  feeble.  And,  suddenly, 
the  voice  of  the  burn  seemed  to  come  from  a  long 
way  off.  I  put  out  my  hand,  and  took  up  from 
the  rock  on  which  I  had  laid  it,  "  Faust."  And, 
scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  I  began  mechani- 
cally to  read  —  to  the  dim  rapture  of  the  burn  — 

"  Scene  III.  —  The  Study.  Faust  (entering^  with 
the  poodle)."  I  began  to  read,  do  I  say,  mechani- 
cally ?  Yes,  it  is  true,  but  soon,  very  soon,  the 
spell  of  Goethe  was  laid  upon  me.  I  was  in  the 
lofty-arched,  narrow  Gothic  chamber,  with  that 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS  101 

living  symbol  of  the  weariness,  broken  ambition, 
learned  despair  of  all  the  ages.  I  was  engrossed. 
I  heard  the  poodle  snarling  by  the  stove.  I  heard 
the  spirits  whispering  in  the  corridor.  Vapour 
rose  —  or  was  it  indeed  the  mist  from  the  moun- 
tains among  the  birch  trees  ?  —  and  out  of  the 
vapour  came  Mephistopheles  in  the  garb  of  a 
travelling  scholar.  And  then  —  and  then  the 
great  bargain  was  struck.  I  heard  —  yes,  I  did, 
I  actually,  and  most  distinctly,  heard  a  voice  — 
Faust's  —  say,  "  Let  us  the  sensual  deeps  explore. 
.  .  .  Plunge  we  in  Time's  tumultuous  dance,  In  the 
rush  and  roll  of  circumstance"  A  pause  ;  then  the 
Student's  grave  and  astonished  tones  came  to  me : 
Eritis  sicut  Deus,  scientes  bonum  et  malum.  The 
cloak  was  spread,  and  on  the  burning  air  Faust 
was  wafted  to  his  new  life  —  nay,  not  to  his  new 
life  merely,  but  to  life  itself.  He  vanished  with 
his  guide  in  a  coloured,  flower-like  mist.  I 
dropped  my  hand  holding  the  book  down  upon  the 
cold  rock  by  which  the  cold  water  splashed.  It 
felt  burning  hot  to  my  touch.  My  head  fell  upon 
my  breast,  and  I  had  my  dreams  —  dreams  of  the 
life  of  Faust  and  of  its  glories,  gained  by  this  bar- 
gain that  he  made.  And  then  —  yes,  then  it  was  ! 
—  the  voice  of  the  burn,  as  from  leagues  away  in 
the  bosom  of  this  very  mist,  began  to  sing  like  a 
fairy  voice,  or  a  voice  in  dreams,  and  in  visions  of 
the  night,  "  If  it  was  so  then,  it  might  be  so  new" 
At  first  I  scarcely  heeded  it,  for  I  was  enwrapt. 


102  BYE-WAYS 

But  the  song  grew  louder,  more  insistent.  It  was 
travelling  to  me  from  a  far  country.  I  heard  it 
coming  :  "  If  it  was  so  then,  it  might  be  so  now  "  — 
"  If  it  was  so  then,  it  might  be  so  now"  How  near 
it  was  at  last,  how  loud  in  my  ears  !  And  yet 
always  there  was  something  vague,  visionary  about 
it,  something  of  the  mist,  I  think.  At  length  I 
heard  it  with  the  attention  that  is  of  earth.  I  came 
to  myself,  out  of  the  narrow  Gothic  chamber  in 
which  the  genius  of  Goethe  had  prisoned  me,  and 
I  stared  into  the  mist,  which  was  gathering  thicker 
as  the  night  began  to  fall.  It  seemed  flower-like, 
and  full  of  strange  and  mysterious  colour.  I 
trembled.  I  got  up.  Still  I  heard  the  voice  of 
the  burn  singing  that  monotonous  legend,  on,  and 
on,  and  on.  Slowly  I  turned.  I  climbed  the 
bank  of  the  den.  The  sheep  scattered  lethargi- 
cally at  my  approach.  I  passed  through  the  creak- 
ing iron  gate  into  the  garden.  Carlounie  was 
before  me.  There  was  something  altered,  some- 
thing triumphant  about  its  aspect.  The  voice  of 
the  burn  faded  in  a  long  diminuendo.  Yet,  even 
as  I  gained  the  door  of  my  house,  and,  before 
entering  it,  paused  in  an  attentive  attitude,  I  heard 
the  water  chanting  faintly  from  the  den  —  "  If  it 
was  so  then,  it  might  be  so  now"  .  .  .  As  I  came 
into  the  hall,  in  which  Gavin  and  Dr  Wedder- 
burn  stood  together  talking  earnestly,  I  remember 
that  I  shivered.  Yet  my  cheeks  were  glowing. 


A    TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          103 

From  that  moment  not  a  day  passed  without 
my  visiting  the  burn.  It  summoned  me.  Always 
it  sang  those  words  persistently.  The  sound  of  the 
water  can  be  very  faintly  heard  from  the  windows 
of  Carlounie.  Each  day,  at  dawn,  I  pushed  open 
the  lattice  of  my  bedroom  and  hearkened  to  hear 
if  the  song  had  changed.  Each  night,  at  moon- 
rise,  or  in  the  darkness  through  which  the  soft  and 
small  rain  fell  quietly,  I  leaned  over  the  sill  and 
listened.  Sometimes  the  wind  was  loud  among 
the  mountains.  Sometimes  the  silence  was  intense 
and  awful.  But  in  storm  or  in  stillness  the  burn 
sang  on,  ever  and  ever  the  same  words.  At 
moments  I  fancied  that  the  voice  was  as  the  voice 
of  a  man  demented,  repeating  with  mirthless  frenzy 
through  all  his  years  one  hollow  sentence.  At 
moments  I  deemed  it  the  cry  of  a  fair  woman, 
a  siren,  a  Lorelei  among  my  rocks  in  my  valley. 
Then  again  I  said,  "  It  is  a  spirit  voice,  a  voice  from 
the  inner  chamber  of  my  own  heart."  And  — 
why  I  know  not  —  at  that  last  fantasy  I  shuddered. 
Even  in  the  midnight  from  my  window  ledge  I 
leaned  while  the  world  slept  and  I  heard  the 
mystic  message  of  the  burn.  My  visits  to  its  bed 
were  not  unobserved.  One  morning  my  cousin 
Gavin  said  to  me  roughly,  "  Why  the  devil  are  you 
always  stealing  of?  to  that  ditch"  —  so  he  called 
the  den  that  was  the  home  of  my  voice  —  "  when 
you  ought  to  be  practising  to  conquer  your  infernal 
deficiencies  ?  Why,  the  children  of  your  own 


io4  BYE-WAYS 

keepers  laugh  at  you.  Try  to  shoot  straight,  man, 
and  be  a  real  man  instead  of  dreaming  and  idling." 
I  stared  at  him  and  answered,  "  You  don't  under- 
stand everything."  Once  Dr  Wedderburn,  who 
had  been  my  tutor,  said  to  me  more  kindly, 
"  Alistair,  action  is  better  for  you  than  thought. 
Leave  the  burn  alone.  You  go  there  to  brood.  Try 
to  work,  for  work  is  the  best  man-maker  after  all." 

And  to  him  I  said,  "Yes,  I  know!  "  and  flew 
with  a  strong  wing  in  the  face  of  his  advice.  For 
the  voice  of  the  burn  was  more  to  me  than  the 
voice  of  Gavin,  or  of  Wedderburn ;  and  the  mind 
of  the  burn  meant  more  to  me  than  the  mind  of 
any  man.  And  so  the  Autumn  died  slowly,  with 
a  lingering  decadence,  and  shrouded  perpetually  in 
mist.  I  often  felt  ill,  even  then.  My  body  was 
dressed  in  weakness.  Perhaps  already  the  fever 
was  upon  me.  I  wish  I  could  know.  Was  it 
crawling  in  my  veins  ?  Was  it  nestling  about  my 
heart  and  in  my  brain  ?  Could  it  be  that  ?  .  .  . 

Certainly  during  this  period  life  seemed  alien  to 
me,  and  I  moved  as  one  apart  in  a  remote  world, 
full  of  the  music  of  the  burn,  and  full,  too,  of 
vague  clouds.  That  is  so.  Looking  back,  I  know 
it.  Still,  I  cannot  be  sure  what  is  the  truth.  In 
the  late  Autumn  I  paid  my  last  visit  to  the  burn 
before  my  illness  seized  me.  The  cold  of  early 
Winter  was  in  the  air  and  a  great  stillness.  It 
was  afternoon  when  I  left  the  house  walking  slowly 
with  my  awkward  gait.  My  face,  I  know,  was  white 


A    TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          105 

and  drawn,  and  I  felt  that  my  lips  were  twitching. 
I  did  not  carry  my  volume  of  Goethe  in  my  hand ; 
but,  in  its  place,  held  an  old  book  on  transcen- 
dental magic.  The  voice  of  the  burn  —  yes,  that 
alone — had  led  me  to  study  this  book.  So  now 
I  took  it  down  to  the  burn.  Why  ?  Had  I  the 
foolish  fancy  of  introducing  my  live  thing  of  the 
den  to  this  strange  writing  on  the  black  art  ?  Who 
knows  ?  Perhaps  the  fever  in  my  veins  put  the 
book  into  my  hand.  I  shivered  in  the  damp  cold 
as  I  descended  the  steep  ground  that  lay  about  the 
water,  which  that  day  seemed  to  roar  in  my  ears 
the  sentence  I  had  heard  so  many  days  and  nights. 
And  this  time,  as  I  hearkened,  my  heart  and  my 
brain  echoed  the  last  words  — "  //  might  be  so 
now."  Gaining  the  edge  of  the  burn,  then  in 
heavy  spate,  I  watched  for  a  while  the  passage  of 
the  foam  from  rock  to  rock.  I  peered  into  the 
pools,  clouded  with  flood  water  from  the  hills,  and 
with  whirling  or  sinking  dead  leaves.  And  all 
my  meagre  body  seemed  pulsing  with  those  ever- 
lasting words  :  "  Why  not  now  ?  "  I  murmured 
to  myself,  with  a  sort  of  silent  sneer,  too,  at  my 
own  absurdity.  I  remember  I  glanced  furtively 
around  as  I  spoke.  Grey  emptiness,  grey  loneli- 
ness, dripping  bare  trees  through  whose  branches 
the  mist  curled  silently,  cold  rocks,  the  cold  flood 
of  the  swollen  burn  —  such  was  the  blank  prospect 
that  met  my  eyes. 

There  was  no  man  near   me.     There  was  no 


106  BYE-WAYS 

one  to  look  at  me.  I  was  remote,  hidden  in  a 
secret  place,  and  the  early  twilight  was  already 
beginning  to  fall.  No  one  could  see  me.  I 
opened  my  old  and  ragged  book,  or,  rather,  let  it 
fall  open  at  a  certain  page.  Upon  it  I  looked  for 
the  hundredth  time,  and  read  that  he  who  would 
evoke  the  Devil  must  choose  a  solitary  and  con- 
demned spot.  The  burn  was  solitary.  The  burn 
was  condemned  surely  by  the  despair  and  by  the 
endless  incapacities  of  the  wretched  being  who 
owned  it.  I  had  taken  off  my  shoes  and  placed 
them  upon  a  rock.  My  feet  were  bare.  My 
head  was  covered.  I  now  furtively  proceeded  to 
gather  together  a  small  heap  of  sticks  and  leaves, 
and  to  these  I  set  fire,  after  several  attempts.  As 
the  flames  at  last  crept  up,  the  mist  gathered  more 
closely  round  me  and  my  fire,  as  if  striving  to  warm 
itself  at  the  blaze.  The  voice  of  the  burn  mingled 
with  the  uneasy  crackle  of  the  twigs,  and  a  murmur 
of  its  words  seemed  to  emanate  also  from  the 
flames,  two  elements  uniting  to  imitate  the  utter- 
ance of  man  to  my  brain,  already  surely  tormented 
with  fever.  And  now,  with  my  eyes  upon  my 
book,  I  proceeded  to  trace  with  the  sharp  point  of 
a  stick  in  some  sandy  soil  between  two  rocks  a 
rough  Goetic  Circle  of  Black  evocations  and  pacts. 
From  time  to  time  I  paused  in  my  work  and 
glanced  uneasily  about  me,  but  I  saw  only  the 
mists  and  the  waters. 

At  length  my  task  was  finished,  and  the  time 


A   TRIBUTE   OF    SOULS  107 

had  arrived  for  the  supreme  effort  of  my  insane  and 
childish  folly.  Standing  at  Amasarac  in  the  Circle, 
I  said  aloud  the  formula  of  Evocation  of  the  Grand 
Grimoire,  ending  with  the  words  "  Jehosua,  Evam, 
Zariat,  natmik,  Come,  come,  come." 

My  voice  died  away  in  the  twilight,  and  I  stood 
among  the  grey  rocks  waiting,  mad  creature  that  I 
surely  was  !  But  only  the  rippling  voice  of  the 
burn  answered  my  adjuration.  Then  I  repeated  the 
words  in  a  louder  tone,  adding  menaces  and  impre- 
cations to  my  formula.  And  all  the  time  the  fire 
I  had  kindled  sprang  up  into  the  mist ;  and  the 
twilight  of  the  heavy  Autumn  fell  slowly  round  me. 
Again  I  paused,  and  again  my  madness  received 
no  satisfaction,  no  response.  But  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  heard  the  browsing  sheep  on  the  summit  of  the 
right  bank  of  the  gully  scatter  as  if  at  the  approach 
of  some  one.  Yet  there  was  no  stir  of  footsteps. 
It  must  have  been  my  fancy,  or  the  animals  were 
merely  changing  their  feeding  ground  in  a  troop,  as 
they  sometimes  will,  for  no  assignable  cause.  And 
now  I  made  one  last  effort,  urged  by  the  voice  of 
the  burn,  which  sang  so  loudly  the  words  which  had 
mingled  with  my  dream  of  Faust.  I  cried  aloud  the 
supreme  appellation,  making  an  effort  that  brought 
out  the  sweat  on  my  forehead,  and  set  the  pulses 
leaping  in  my  thin  and  shivering  body.  "  Chava- 
joth  !  chavajoth !  chavajoth !  I  command  thee  by  the 
Key  of  Solomon  and  the  great  name  Semhamphoras" 


108  BYE-WAYS 

A  little  way  up  the  course  of  the  burn  the  dead 
wood  cracked  and  shuffled  under  the  pressure  of 
descending  feet.  Again  I  heard  a  scattering  of  the 
sheep  upon  the  hillside.  My  hair  stirred  on  my 
head  under  my  cap,  and  the  noise  of  the  falling 
water  was  intolerably  loud  to  me.  I  wanted  to 
hear  plainly,  to  hear  what  was  coming  down  to  me 
in  the  mist.  The  brush-wood  sang  nearer.  In 
the  heavy  and  damp  air  there  was  the  small,  sharp 
report  of  a  branch  snapped  from  a  tree.  I  heard 
it  drop  among  the  ferns  close  to  me.  And  then 
in  the  mist  and  in  the  twilight  I  saw  a  slim  figure 
standing  motionless.  It  was  vague,  but  less  vague 
than  a  shadow.  It  seemed  to  be  a  man,  or  a  youth, 
clad  in  a  grey  suit  that  could  scarcely  be  differen- 
tiated from  the  mist.  The  flames  of  my  fire,  bent 
by  a  light  breeze  that  had  sprung  up,  stretched 
themselves  towards  it,  as  if  to  salute  it.  And  now 
I  could  not  hear  any  movement  of  the  sheep ;  evi- 
dently they  had  gone  to  a  distance.  At  first, 
seized  with  a  strange  feeling  of  extreme,  almost 
unutterable  fear,  I  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  Then, 
making  a  strong  effort  to  regain  control  of  my 
ordinary  faculties,  I  cried  out  in  the  twilight  — 

"  What  is  that  ?     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Only  a  stranger  who  has  missed  his  way  on  the 
mountain,  and  wants  to  go  on  to  Wester  Denoon." 

The  voice  that  came  to  me  from  the  figure  be- 
yond the  fire  sounded,  I  remember,  quite  young, 
like  the  voice  of  a  boy.  It  was  clear  and  level, 


A  TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          109 

and  perhaps  a  little  formal.  So  that  was  all.  A 
tourist  —  that  was  all ! 

"  Can  you  direct  me  on  the  way  ?  "  the  voice  said. 

I  gave  the  required  direction  slowly,  for  I  was 
still  confused,  nervous,  exhausted  with  my  insane 
practices  in  the  den.  But  the  youth  —  as  I  sup- 
posed he  was  —  did  not  move  away  at  once. 

"  What  are  you  doing  by  this  fire  ? "  he  said. 
"  I  heard  your  voice  calling  by  the  torrent  among 
the  trees  when  I  was  a  very  long  way  off"." 

Strangely,  I  did  not  resent  the  question.  Still 
more  strangely,  I  was  impelled  to  give  him  the  true 
answer  to  it. 

"  Raising  the  Devil !  "  he  said.  "  And  did  he 
come  to  you  ?  " 

"No;  of  course  not.  You  must  think  me 
mad." 

"  And  why  do  you  call  him  ?  " 

Suddenly  a  desire  to  confide  in  this  stranger, 
whose  face  I  could  not  see  now,  whose  shadowy 
form  I  should,  in  all  probability,  never  see  again, 
came  upon  me.  My  usual  nervousness  deserted 
me.  I  let  loose  my  heart  in  a  turbulent  crowd  of 
words.  I  explained  my  impotence  of  body  and  of 
mind  to  this  grey  traveller  in  the  twilight.  I  dwelt 
upon  my  misery.  I  repeated  the  cry  of  the  burn 
and  related  my  insane  dream  of  imitating  Faust,  of 
making  my  poor  pact  with  Lucifer,  with  the 
Sphinx  of  mediaeval  terrors.  When  I  ceased,  the 
boy's  voice  answered  :  — 


no  BYE-WAYS 

"  They  say  that  in  these  modern  days  Satan  has 
grown  exigent.  It  is  not  enough  to  dedicate  to 
him  your  own  soul ;  but  you  must  also  pay  a 
tribute  of  souls  to  the  Caesar  of  hell." 

"  A  tribute  of  souls  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  must  bring,  they  say,  the  mystic 
number,  three  souls  to  Satan." 

Suddenly  I  laughed. 

"  I  could  never  do  that,"  I  said.  "  I  have  no 
power  to  seduce  man  or  woman.  I  cannot  win 
souls  to  heaven  or  to  hell." 

''But  if  you  received  new  powers,  such  as  you 
desire,  would  you  use  them  to  win  souls,  three 
souls,  to  Lucifer  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  with  passionate  earnestness.  "  I 
swear  to  you  that  I  would." 

Suddenly  the  boy's  voice  laughed. 

"  £)uomodo  cecidisti,  Lucifer  !  "  he  said.  "  When 
thou  canst  not  contrive  to  capture  souls  for  thy- 
self! But,"  he  added,  as  if  addressing  himself 
once  more  to  me,  after  this  strange  ejaculation, 
"  your  words  have,  perhaps,  sealed  the  bond. 
Who  knows  ?  Words  that  come  from  the  very 
heart  are  often  deeds.  For,  as  we  can  never  go 
back  from  things  that  we  have  done,  it  may  be 
that,  sometimes,  we  can  never  go  back  from  things 
that  we  have  said." 

On  the  words  he  moved,  acd  passed  so  swiftly 
by  me  into  the  twilight  down  the  glen  that  I  never 
saw  his  face.  I  turned  instinctively  to  look  after 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          in 

him  ;  and,  this  was  strange,  it  seemed  that  the 
wind  at  that  very  moment  must  have  turned  with 
me,  blowing  from,  instead  of  towards,  the  moun- 
tain. This  certainly  was  so ;  for  the  tongues  of 
flame  from  my  fire  bent  backward  on  a  sudden  and 
leaned  after  the  grey  traveller,  whose  steps  died 
swiftly  away  among  the  rocks,  and  on  the  shuffling 
dead  wood  and  leaves  of  the  birches  and  the  oaks. 
And  then  there  came  a  singing  in  my  ears,  a 
beating  of  many  drums  in  my  brain.  I  drooped 
and  sank  down  by  the  fire  in  the  mist.  My  fever 
came  upon  me  like  a  giant,  and  presently  Gavin 
and  Doctor  Wedderburn,  searching  in  the  night, 
found  me  in  a  delirium,  and  bore  me  back  to 
Carlounie. 


II 

THE    SOUL    OF    DR    WEDDERBURN 

To  emerge  from  a  great  illness  is  sometimes  dread- 
ful, sometimes  divine.  To  one  man  the  return 
from  the  gates  of  death  is  a  progress  of  despair. 
He  feels  that  he  cannot  face  the  wild  contrasts  of 
the  surprising  world  again,  that  his  courage  has 
been  broken  upon  the  wheel,  that  energy  is  deso- 
lation, and  sleep  true  beauty.  To  another  this 
return  is  a  marvellous  and  superb  experience.  It 
is  like  the  vivid  re-awakening  of  youth  in  one  who 
is  old,  a  rapture  of  the  past  committing  an  act  of 


ii2  BYE- WAYS 

brigandage  upon  the  weariness  of  the  present,  a 
glorious  substitution  of  Eden  for  the  outer  courts 
where  is  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth.  It  will 
be  supposed  that  I  found  myself  in  the  first  cate- 
gory, a  terror-stricken  and  rebellious  mortal  when 
the  fever  gave  me  up  to  the  world  again.  For  the 
world  had  always  been  cruel  to  me,  because  I  was 
afraid  of  it,  and  was  a  puny  thing  in  it.  Yet  this 
was  not  so.  My  convalescence  was  like  a  beauti- 
ful dream  of  rest  underneath  which  riot  stirred. 
A  simile  will  explain  best  exactly  what  I  mean. 
Let  me  liken  the  calm  of  my  convalescence  to 
the  calm  of  earth  on  the  edge  of  Spring.  What  a 
riot  of  form,  of  scent,  of  colour,  of  movement,  is 
preparing  beneath  that  enigmatic,  and  apparently 
profound,  repose.  In  the  simile  you  have  my 
exact  state.  And  I  alone  felt  that,  within  this 
womb  of  inaction,  the  child,  action,  lay  hid,  devel- 
oping silently,  but  inexorably,  day  by  day.  This 
knowledge  was  my  strange  secret.  It  came  upon 
me  one  night  when  I  lay  awake  in  the  faint  twi- 
light, shed  by  a  carefully  shaded  lamp  over  my 
bed.  Rain  drummed  gently  against  the  windows. 
There  was  no  other  sound.  By  the  fire,  in  a 
great  armchair,  the  trained  nurse,  Kate  Walters, 
was  sitting  with  a  book  —  "  Jane  Eyre"  it  was  — 
upon  her  knees.  I  had  been  sleeping  and  now 
awoke  thirsty.  I  put  out  my  hand  to  get  at  a 
tumbler  of  lemonade  that  stood  on  a  table  by  my 
pillow.  And  suddenly  a  thought,  a  curious  thought, 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          113 

was  with  me.  My  hand  had  grasped  the  tumbler 
and  lifted  it  from  the  table  ;  but,  instead  of  bring- 
ing my  hand  to  my  mouth  I  kept  my  arm  rigidly 
extended,  the  tumbler  poised  on  my  palm  as  upon 
the  palm  of  a  juggler. 

"  How  long  my  arm  is  !  "  that  was  my  thought, 
"  and  how  strong  !  "  Formerly  it  had  been  short, 
weak,  awkward.  Now,  surely,  after  my  illness, 
my  arms  would  naturally  be  nerveless,  useless 
things.  The  odd  fact  was  that  now,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  felt  joy  in  a  physical  act.  An 
absurd  and  puny  act,  you  will  say,  I  daresay. 
What  of  that  ?  With  it  came  a  sudden  stirring 
of  triumph.  I  lay  there  on  my  back  and  kept  my 
arm  extended  for  full  five  minutes  by  the  watch 
that  ticked  by  my  bed-head.  And  with  each 
second  that  passed  joy  blossomed  more  fully 
within  my  heart.  I  drank  the  lemonade  as  one 
who  drinks  a  glad  toast.  Yet  I  was  puzzled. 
"Is  this  —  can  this  be  a  remnant  of  delirium?" 
I  asked  myself.  And  beneath  the  clothes  drawn 
up  to  my  chin  I  fingered  my  arm  above  the  elbow. 
It  was  the  limb  of  a  big,  strong  man.  Surprise, 
supreme  astonishment  forced  an  exclamation  from 
my  lips.  Kate  got  up  softly  and  came  towards 
me ;  but  I  feigned  to  be  asleep,  and  she  returned 
to  the  fire.  Yet,  peering  under  my  lowered  eye- 
lids, I  noticed  an  expression  of  amazement  upon 
her  young  and  pretty  face.  I  knew  afterwards 

that  it  was  the  sound  of  my  voice — my  new  voice 
8 


ii4  BYE- WAYS 

—  that  drew  it  there.  After  that  night  my  con- 
valescence was  more  than  a  joy  to  me,  it  was  a 
rapture,  touched  by,  and  mingled  with  something 
that  was  almost  awe.  Is  not  the  earth  awe-struck 
when  she  considers  that  Spring  and  Summer  nestle 
silently  in  her  bosom  ?  With  each  day  the  secret 
which  I  kept  grew  more  mysterious,  more  pro- 
found. Soon  I  knew  it  could  be  a  secret  no 
longer.  The  fever — it  must  be  that!  —  had 
wrought  magic  within  my  body,  driving  out  weak- 
ness, impotence,  lassitude,  developing  my  physical 
powers  to  an  extent  that  was  nothing  less  than 
astounding.  Lying  there  in  my  bed,  I  felt  the 
dwarf  expand  into  the  giant.  Think  of  it !  Did 
ever  living  man  know  such  an  experience  before  ? 
A  bodily  spring  came  about  within  me.  And  I 
was  already  twenty-two  years  old  before  the  fever 
took  me.  My  limbs  grew  large  and  strong ;  the 
muscles  of  my  chest  and  back  were  tensely  strung 
and  knit  as  firmly  as  the  muscles  of  an  athlete. 
I  lay  still,  it  is  true,  and  felt  much  of  the  peculiar 
vagueness  that  follows  fever;  but  I  was  conscious 
of  a  supine,  latent  energy  never  known  before.  I 
was  conscious  that  when  I  rose,  and  went  out 
into  the  world  again,  it  would  be  as  a  man,  capable 
of  holding  his  own  against  other  strong,  straight 
men.  That  was  a  wonder.  But  it  was  succeeded 
by  a  greater  marvel  yet. 

One  afternoon,  while  I  was  still  in  bed,  Doctor 
Wedderburn  came  to  see  me  and  to  sit  with  me. 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          115 

He  had  been  away  on  a  holiday,  and,  consequently, 
had  not  visited  me  before,  except  once  when  I  had 
been  delirious.  The  doctor  was  a  short,  spare 
man,  with  a  sharply  cut  brick-red  face,  lively  and 
daring  dark  eyes,  and  straight  hair  already  on  the 
road  to  grey.  His  self-possession  bordered  on  self- 
satisfaction  ;  and,  despite  his  good  heart  and  the 
real  and  anxious  sanctity  of  his  life,  he  could  seldom 
entirely  banish  from  his  manner  the  contempt,  he 
felt  for  those  less  intellectual,  less  swift-minded 
than  himself.  Often  had  I  experienced  the  sting- 
ing lash  of  his  sarcasm.  Often  had  I  withered 
beneath  one  of  his  keen  glances  that  dismissed  me 
from  an  argument  as  a  profound  sage  might  kick 
an  urchin  from  the  study  into  the  street.  Often 
had  I  hated  him  with  a  sick  hatred  and  ground  my 
teeth  because  my  mind  was  so  clouded  and  so 
helpless,  while  his  was  so  lucent  and  so  adroit.  So 
now,  when  I  heard  his  tap  on  the  door,  his  deep 
voice  asking  to  come  in,  a  rage  of  self-contempt 
seized  me,  as  in  the  days  before  my  illness.  The 
doctor  entered  with  an  elaborate  softness,  and 
walked,  flat-footed,  to  my  bed,  pursing  his  large 
lips  gently  as  men  do  when  rilled  with  cautious 
thoughts.  I  could  see  he  desired  to  moderate  his 
habitual  voice  and  manner;  but,  arrived  close  to 
me,  he  suddenly  cried  aloud,  with  a  singularly  full- 
throated  amazement. 

"  Boy  —  boy,  what 's  come  to  you  ?  "   he  called. 
Then,    abruptly    putting    his    ringer    to    his     lips, 


n6  BYE- WAYS 

he    sank   down    in   a  chair,  his    bright  eyes  fixed 
upon  me. 

"  It 's  a  miracle,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  What  is  ?  "  I  asked  with  an  invalid's  pettish- 
ness. 

u  The  voice,  too  —  the  voice  !  " 

I  grew  angry  easily,  as  men  do  when  they  are 
sick. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  Of  course  I  Ve  been 
bad  —  of  course  I  'm  changed." 

"Changed!  Look  at  yourself — and  praise 
God,  Alistair." 

He  had  caught  up  a  hand-mirror  that  lay  on  the 
dressing-table  and  now  put  it  into  my  hand.  For 
the  first  time  since  the  fever  I  saw  my  face.  It 
was  as  it  had  been  and  yet  it  was  utterly  different, 
for  now  it  was  beautiful.  The  pinched  features 
seemed  to  have  been  smoothed  out.  The  mouth 
had  become  firm  and  masterful.  The  haggard  eyes 
were  alight  as  if  torches  burned  behind  them.  My 
expression,  too,  was  powerful,  collected,  alert.  I 
scarcely  recognised  myself.  But  I  pretended  to  see 
no  change. 

"  Well  —  what  is  it  ? "  I  asked,  dropping  the  glass. 

The  doctor  was  confused  by  my  calm. 

"  Your  look  of  health  startled  me,"  he  answered, 
sitting  down  by  the  bed  and  examining  me  keenly. 

All  at  once  I  was  seized  by  a  strange  desire  to 
get  up  an  argument  with  this  man,  by  whom  I  had 
so  often  been  crushed  in  conversation.  I  leaned 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          117 

on  my  elbow  in  the  bed,  and  fixing  my  eyes  on 
him,  I  said  :  — 

"  And  why  should  I  praise  God  ?  " 

The  doctor  seemed  in  amazement  at  my  tone. 

"  Because  you  are  a  Christian  and  have  been 
brought  back  from  death,"  he  replied,  but  with 
none  of  his  usual  half-sarcastic  self-confidence. 

«  You  think  God  did  that  ?  " 

"  Alistair,  do  you  dare  to  blaspheme  the  Al- 
mighty ?  " 

I  felt  at  that  moment  like  a  cat  playing  with  a 
mouse.  My  lips,  I  know,  curved  in  a  smile  of 
mockery,  and  yet  I  will  swear  —  yes,  even  to  my 
own  heart  —  that  all  I  said  that  day  I  said  in  pure 
mischief,  with  no  evil  intent.  It  seemed  that  I, 
Alistair  Ralston,  the  dolt,  the  ignoramus,  longed 
to  try  mental  conclusions  with  this  brilliant  and 
opinionated  divine.  He  bade  me  praise  God.  In 
reply  I  praised  —  the  Devil,  and  I  forced  him  to 
hear  me.  Absolutely  I  broke  into  a  flood  of  words, 
and  he  sat  silent.  I  compared  the  good  and  evil 
in  the  scheme  of  the  world,  balancing  them  in 
the  scales,  the  one  against  the  other.  I  took  up 
the  stock  weapon  of  atheism,  the  deadly  nature,  the 
deadly  outcome  of  free  will.  I  used  it  with  skill. 
The  names  of  Strauss,  Comte,  Schopenhauer, 
Renan,  a  dozen  others,  sprang  from  my  lips.  The 
dreary  doctrine  of  the  illimitable  triumph  of  sin,  of 
the  appalling  mistake  of  the  permission  granted  it 
to  step  into  the  scheme  of  creation,  in  order  that  its 


n8  BYE-WAYS 

presence  might  create  a  raison  d'etre  for  the  power 
of  personal  action  one  way  or  the  other  in  mankind 

—  such  matters  as  these  I  treated  with  a  vehement 
eloquence  and  command  of  words  that  laid  a  spell 
upon  the  doctor.    Going  very  far,  I  dared  to  exclaim 
that  since  God  had  allowed  his  own  scheme  to  get 

o 

out  of  gear,  the  only  hope  of  man  lay  in  the  direction 
of  the  opposing  force,  in  frank  and  ardent  Satanism. 

When  at  length  I  ceased  from  speaking,  I 
expected  Dr  Wedderburn  to  rise  up  in  his  wrath 
and  to  annihilate  me,  but  he  sat  still  in  his  chair 
with  a  queer,  and,  as  I  thought,  puzzled  expression 
upon  his  face.  At  last  he  said,  as  if  to  himself: 

"  The  miracle  of  Balaam  ;  verily,  the  miracle 
of  Balaam." 

The  ass  had  indeed  spoken  as  never  ass  spoke 
before.  I  waited  a  moment,  then  I  said  :  — 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  rebuke  me,  or  why  don't 
you  try  to  controvert  me  ?  " 

Again  he  looked  upon  me,  very  uneasily  I 
thought,  and  with  something  that  was  almost  fear 
in  his  keen  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  I  have  praised  the  Lord  many 
a  morning  and  evening  for  his  gift  of  words  to  me. 
It  seems  others  bestow  that  gift  too.  Alistair " 

—  and   here  his  voice   became  deeply    solemn  — 
"  where  have  you  been  visiting  when  you  lay  there, 
mad   to  all   seeming  ?     In   what  dark  place  have 
you  been  to  gather  destruction  for  men  ?     With 
whom  have  you  been  talking  ?  " 


A    TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          119 

Suddenly,  I  know  not  why,  I  thought  of  the 
grey  stranger,  and,  with  a  laugh,  I  cried  :  — 

"  The  grey  traveller  taught  me  all  I  have  said 
to  you." 

"  The  grey  traveller !     Who  may  he  be  ?  " 

But  I  lay  back  upon  the  pillows  and  refused  to 
answer,  and  very  soon  the  doctor  went,  still  bend- 
ing uneasy,  nervous  eyes  upon  me. 

In  those  eyes  I  read  the  change  that  had  stolen 
over  my  intellect,  as  in  the  hand-mirror  I  had  read 
the  change  that  had  stolen  over  my  face.  This 
strange  fever  had  caused  both  soul  and  body  to 
blossom.  I  trembled  with  an  exquisite  joy.  Had 
Fate  relented  to  me  at  last  ?  Was  it  possible  that 
I  was  to  know  the  joys  of  the  heroes  ?  I  longed 
for,  yet  feared  my  full  recovery.  In  it  alone  should 
I  discover  how  sincere  was  my  transformation. 
Doctor  Wedderburn  did  not  come  to  me  again. 
The  days  passed,  my  convalescence  strengthened, 
watched  over  by  the  pretty  nurse,  Kate  Walters,  a 
fresh,  pure,  pious,  innocent,  beautiful  soul,  tender, 
temperate,  and  pitiful  for  all  sorrow  and  evil.  At 
length  I  was  well.  At  length  I  knew,  to  some 
extent,  my  new,  my  marvellous  self.  For  I  had, 
indeed,  been  folded  up  in  my  fever  like  a  vesture, 
and,  like  a  vesture,  changed.  I  had  grown  taller, 
expanded,  put  forth  mighty  muscles  as  a  tree  puts 
forth  leaves.  My  cheeks  and  my  eyes  glowed  with 
the  radiance  of  strong  health.  I  went  out  with  my 
lousin  Gavin,  whose  estate  marched  with  mine, 


120  BYE-WAYS 

and  I  shot  so  well  that  he  was  filled  with  admira- 
tion, and  forthwith  conceived  a  sort  of  foolish  wor- 
ship for  me — having  a  sportsman's  soul  but  no 
real  mind.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  abso- 
lutely at  home  on  a  horse,  an  unwonted  skill  came 
to  my  hands,  and  I  actually  schooled  Gavin's 
horses  over  some  fences  he  had  had  set  up  in  a 
grass  park  at  the  Mains  of  Cossens.  The  keepers 
who  had  once  secretly  jeered  at  me  were  now  at 
my  very  feet.  Their  children  looked  upon  me  as 
a  young  god.  I  rejoiced  in  my  strength  as  a  giant. 
But  I  asked  myself  then,  as  I  ask  myself  now 
—  what  does  it  mean  ?  The  days  of  miracles  are 
over.  Yet,  is  this  not  a  miracle  ?  And  in  a  mir- 
acle is  there  not  a  gleam  of  terror,  as  there  is  a 
gleam  of  stormy  yellow  in  the  fated  opal  ?  But 
here  I  leave  my  condition  of  body  alone,  and  pass 
on  to  the  episode  of  Doctor  Wedderburn,  partially 
related  in  the  newspapers  of  the  day  and  marvelled 
at,  I  believe,  by  all  who  ever  knew,  or  even  set 
eyes  upon  him. 

The  doctor,  as  I  have  said,  did  not  come  again 
to  see  me,  but  I  felt  an  over-mastering  desire  to 
set  forth  and  visit  him.  This  was  surprising,  as 
hitherto  I  had  rather  avoided  and  hated  him.  Now 
something  drew  me  to  the  Manse.  At  first  I  re- 
sisted my  inclination,  but  a  chance  word  led  me 
to  yield  to  it  impulsively.  Since  my  illness  I  had 
not  once  attended  church.  Moved  by  a  violent 
distaste  for  the  religious  service,  that  was  novel  in 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS  121 

me,  I  had  frankly  avowed  my  intention  of  keeping 
away.  But,  as  I  did  not  go  to  the  kirk,  I  missed 
seeing  Dr  Wedderburn ;  and  I  wanted  to  see  him. 
One  day,  leaning  by  chance  against  a  stone  dyke 
in  the  Glen  of  Ogilvy,  smoking  a  pipe  and  enjoy- 
ing the  soft  air  of  Spring  as  it  blew  over  the  roll- 
ing moorland,  I  heard  two  ploughmen  exchange  a 
fragment  of  gossip  that  made  excitement  start  up 
quick  within  me. 

One  said  :  — 

"  The  doctor 's  failin'.  Man,  he  was  fairly 
haverin'  last  Sabbath,  on  and  on,  wi'out  logic  or 
argeyment  or  sense." 

The  other  answered  :  — — 

"  Ay ;  he  's  greatly  changed.  He 's  no  the  man 
he  was.  It  fairly  beats  me ;  I  canna  mak'  it  out. 
Ye  've  heard  that  —  "  And  here  he  lowered  his 
voice  and  I  could  not  catch  his  words. 

I  turned  away  from  the  wall,  and  walking 
swiftly,  set  out  for  the  Manse  with  a  busy  mind. 
The  afternoon  was  already  late,  and  when  I  gained 
a  view  of  the  Manse,  a  cold  grey  house  standing  a 
little  apart  in  a  grove  of  weary-looking  sycamores, 
one  or  two  lights  smiled  on  me  from  the  small 
windows  that  stared  upon  the  narrow  and  muddy 
road.  The  minister's  study  was  on  the  right  of 
the  hall  door ;  and,  as  I  pulled  the  bell,  I  observed 
the  shadow  of  his  head  to  dance  upon  the  drawn 
white  blind,  a  thought  fantastically,  or  with  a  palsied 
motion,  I  fancied.  The  yellow-headed  maidser- 


122  BYE-WAYS 

vant  admitted  me  with  a  shrunken  grin,  that  sug- 
gested wild  humour  stifled  by  achieved  respect,  and 
I  was  soon  in  the  minister's  study.  Then  I  saw 
that  Doctor  Wedderburn  was  moving  up  and  down 
the  room,  and  that  his  head  was  going  this  way  and 
that,  as  he  communed  in  a  loud  voice  with  himself. 
My  entrance  checked  him  as  soon  as  he  observed 
me,  which  was  not  instantly,  as,  at  first,  his  back 
was  set  towards  me  and  the  mood-swept  maid. 
When  he  turned  about,  his  discomposure  was  evi- 
dent. His  gaze  was  troubled,  and  his  manner,  as 
he  shook  hands  with  me,  had  in  it  something  of  the 
tremulous,  and  was  backward  in  geniality.  We  sat 
down  on  either  side  of  the  fire,  the  tea  service  and 
the  hot  cakes,  loved  of  the  doctor,  between  us.  At 
first  we  talked  warily  of  such  things  as  my  re- 
covery, the  weather,  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the 
parish  and  so  forth.  I  noticed  that  though  the 
doctor's  eyes  often  rested  with  an  almost  glaring 
expression  of  scrutiny  or  of  surprise  upon  me,  he 
made  no  remark  on  the  change  of  my  appearance. 
Nor  did  I  on  the  change  of  his,  which  was  start- 
ling, and  suggested  I  know  not  what  of  sorrow  and 
of  the  attempt  to  kill  it  with  evil  weapons.  The 
healthy  brick-red  of  his  complexion  was  now  be- 
come scarlet  and  full  of  heat ;  his  mouth  worked 
loosely  while  he  talked  ;  the  flesh  of  his  cheeks 
was  puffed  and  wrinkled  ;  his  eyes  had  the  clouded 
and  yet  fierce  aspect  of  the  drunkard.  But, 
absurdly  enough,  what  most  struck  me  in  him  was 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          123 

his  abstinence  from  an  accustomed  act.  He  drank 
his  tea,  but  he  ate  no  hot  cakes.  This  was  a 
departure  from  an  established,  if  trifling  custom  of 
many  years'  standing,  and  worked  on  my  imagina- 
tive conception  of  what  the  doctor  now  was  more 
than  would,  at  the  first  blush,  appear  likely,  or  even 
possible.  Instead  of,  as  of  old,  feeling  myself  on 
the  worm  level  in  his  presence,  I  was  filled  with  a 
sense  of  pity,  as  I  looked  upon  him  and  wondered 
what  subtle  process  of  mental  or  physical  develop- 
ment or  retrogression  had  wrought  this  dreary 
change.  Presently,  while  I  wondered,  he  put  his 
cup  down  with  an  awkward  and  errant  hand  that 
set  it  swaying  and  clattering  in  the  tray,  and  said 
abruptly  :  — 

u  And  what  have  you  come  for,  Alistair,  eh  ? 
what  have  you  come  for  ?  To  go  on  with  what 
you  've  begun  ?  Well,  well,  lad,  I  'm  ready  for 
you  ;  I  'm  ready  now." 

His  voice  was  full  of  timorous  irritation,  his 
manner  of  pitiable  distress. 

"  I  've  thought  it  out,  I  've  thought  it  all  out,"  he 
continued ;  "  and  I  can  combat  you,  I  can  combat 
you,  Alistair,  wherever  you  've  got  your  fever-mind 
from  and  your  fever-tongue." 

I  knew  what  he  meant,  and  suddenly  I  knew, 
too,  why  I  had  wanted  so  eagerly  to  come  to  the 
Manse.  My  instinct  of  pity  and  of  sympathy  died 
softly  away.  My  new  instinct  of  cruel  rapture  in 
the  ruthless  exercise  of  my  —  shall  I  call  them 


124  BYE-WAYS 

fever-powers  then  ?  —  woke,  dawned  to  sunrise. 
And  Doctor  Wedderburn  and  I  fell  forthwith  into 
an  animated  theological  discussion.  He  was  des- 
perately nervous,  desperately  ill  at  ease.  His 
argumentative  struggles  were  those  of  a  drowning 
man  positively  convinced  —  note  this,  —  that  he 
would  drown,  that  no  human  or  divine  aid  could 
save  him.  There  was,  too,  a  strong  hint  of  personal 
anger  in  his  manner,  which  was  strictly  undignified. 
He  fought  a  losing  battle  with  bludgeons,  and  had 
an  obvious  contempt  for  the  bludgeons  while  in 
the  act  of  using  them  in  defence  or  in  attack. 
And  at  last,  with  a  sort  of  sharp  cry,  he  threw 
up  his  hands,  and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  I  hardly 
knew  as  his  :  — 

"  God  forgive  you,  Alistair,  for  what  you  're 
doing  !  God  forgive  you  —  murderer,  murderer  !  " 

This  dolorous  exclamation  ran  through  me  like 
cold  water  and  chilled  all  the  warmth  of  my  in- 
tellectual excitement. 

"  Murderer  !  "  I  repeated  inexpressively. 

Doctor  Wedderburn  sat  in  his  chair  trembling, 
and  looking  upon  me  with  despairing  and  menac- 
ing eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  curses  but  cannot 
fight  his  enemy. 

"  Of  a  soul,  of  a  soul,"  he  said.  "  The  poisoned 
dagger  —  doubt,  the  poisoned  dagger — you've 
plunged  it  into  me,  boy." 

Then  raising  his  voice  harshly,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Curse  you,  curse  you  !  " 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          125 

I  was  thunderstruck.  I  declare  it  here,  for  it  is 
true.  I  had  defamed  —  and  deliberately  —  the 
doctor's  dearest  idols.  I  had  driven  my  lance  into 
his  convictions.  I  had  blasphemed  what  he  wor- 
shipped, and  had  denied  all  he  affirmed.  But 
that  I  had  made  so  terrific  an  impression  upon 
his  mind,  his  soul — this  astounded  me.  Yet  what 
else  could  his  passionate  denunciation  mean  ?  Had 
I,  a  boy,  unused  to  controversy,  unskilled  in  dia- 
lectics, overthrown  with  my  hasty  words  the  faith 
of  this  strong  and  fervent  man  ?  The  thought 
thrilled  one  side  of  my  dual  nature  with  triumph, 
pierced  the  other  with  grim  horror.  My  emotions 
were  divided  and  complex.  As  I  sat  silent,  my 
face  dogged  yet  ashamed,  the  doctor  got  up  from 
his  chair  trembling  like  one  with  the  palsy. 

"Away  from  me  —  away,"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse 
voice,  and  pointing  at  the  door.  "  I  '11  have  no 
more  talk  with  the  Devil,  no  more  —  no  more  !  " 

I  had  not  a  word.  I  got  up  and  went,  bending 
a  steady,  fascinated  look  upon  this  old  mentor  of 
mine,  who  now  proclaimed  himself  my  victim. 
Arrived  in  the  garden  I  found  a  thin  moon  riding 
above  the  sycamores,  and  soft  airs  of  Spring  play- 
ing round  the  doctor's  habitation.  Strangely,  I 
had  no  mind  to  begone  from  it  immediately.  I 
crossed  the  garden  bit  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  country  lane  that  skirted  it,  keeping  an  eye 
upon  the  lighted  window  of  the  study.  So  I  went 
back  and  forth  for  full  an  hour,  I  suppose.  Then 


126  BYE- WAYS 

I  heard  a  sound  in  the  Spring  night.  The  doctor's 
hall  door  banged,  and,  peering  through  the  privet 
hedge  that  protected  his  meagre  domain,  I  per- 
ceived him  come  out  into  the  air  bareheaded.  He 
took  his  way  to  the  small  path  that  ran  by  the 
hedge  parallel  to  the  lane,  coming  close  to  the  place 
by  which  I  crouched,  spying  upon  his  privacy. 
And  there  he  paced,  bemoaning  aloud  the  ill  fate 
that  had  come  upon  him.  I  heard  all  the  awful 
complaining  of  this  soul  in  distress,  besieged  by 
doubts,  deserted  by  the  faith  and  hope  of  a  lifetime. 
It  was  villainous  to  be  his  audience.  Yet,  I  could 
not  go.  Sometimes  the  poor  man  prayed  with  a 
desolate  voice,  calling  upon  God  for  a  sign,  implor- 
ing against  temptation.  Sometimes  —  and  this  was 
terrible  —  he  blasphemed,  he  imprecated.  And 
then  again  he  prayed  —  to  the  Devil,  as  do  the 
Satanists.  I  heard  him  weeping  in  his  garden  in 
the  night,  alone  under  the  sycamores.  It  was  a 
new  agony  of  the  garden  and  it  wrung  my  heart. 
Yet  I  watched  it  till  the  spectral  moon  waned,  and 
the  trees  were  black  as  sins  against  the  faded  sky. 

About  this  time,  as  I  have  said,  his  parishioners 
began  to  mark  the  outward  change  of  Dr  Wedder- 
burn  that  signified  the  inward  change  in  him.  The 
talking  ploughmen  had  their  fellows.  All  who  sat 
under  the  doctor  were  conscious  of  a  difference,  at 
first  vague,  in  his  eloquent  discourses,  of  a  dimin- 
uendo in  the  full  fervour  of  his  delivery  and  manner. 
Gossip  flowed  about  him,  and  presently  there  were 


A   TRIBUTE    OF    SOULS          127 

whisperings  of  change  in  his  bodily  habits.  He 
had  been  seen  by  night  wandering  about  his  garden 
in  very  unholy  condition,  he  who  had  so  often 
rebuked  excess.  Children,  passing  his  gate  in  the 
dark  of  evening,  had  endured  with  terror  his  tipsy 
shoutings.  A  maidservant  left  him,  and  spread 
doleful  reports  of  his  conduct  through  the  village. 
By  degrees,  rumours  of  our  minister's  shortcomings 
stole,  like  snakes,  into  the  local  papers,  carefully 
shrouded  by  the  wrappings  that  protect  scandal- 
mongers against  libel  actions,  The  congregation 
beneath  the  doctor's  pulpit  dwindled.  Women 
looked  at  him  askance.  Men  were  surly  to  him, 
or  —  and  that  was  less  kind  —  jocular.  I,  alone, 
followed  with  fascination  the  paling  to  dusk  of  a 
bright  and  useful  career.  I,  alone,  partially  under- 
stood the  hell  this  poor  creature  carried  within  him. 
For  I  often  heard  his  dreary  night-thoughts,  and 
assisted,  unperceived  of  him,  at  the  vigils  that  he 
kept.  The  lamp  within  his  study  burned  till  dawn 
while  he  wrestled,  but  in  vain,  with  the  disease  of 
his  soul,  the  malady  of  his  tortured  heart. 

One  night  in  Summer  time,  towards  midnight,  I 
bent  my  steps  furtively  to  the  Manse.  It  was  very 
dark  and  the  weather  was  dumb  and  agitating. 
No  leaf  danced,  no  grass  quivered.  Breathless, 
dead,  seemed  the  woods  and  fields,  the  ocean  of 
moorland,  the  assemblage  of  the  mountains.  I 
heard  no  step  upon  the  lonely  road  but  my  own, 
and  life  seemed  to  have  left  the  world  until  I  came 


128  BYE- WAYS 

upon  the  Manse.  Then  I  saw  the  light  in  the  doc- 
tor's window,  and,  drawing  near,  observed  that  the 
blind  was  up  and  the  lattice  thrust  open  among 
the  climbing  dog-roses.  Craftily  I  stole  up  the 
narrow  garden  path,  and,  keeping  to  the  side  of 
the  window,  looked  into  the  room. 

Doctor  Wedderburn  lounged  within  at  the  table 
facing  me.  A  pen  was  in  his  shaking  hand.  A 
shuffle  of  manuscript  paper  was  before  him,  and  a 
Bible,  in  which  he  thrust  his  fingers  as  if  to  keep 
texts  already  looked  out.  Beyond  the  Bible  was  a 
bottle,  three-quarters  full  of  whiskey,  and  a  glass. 
His  muttering  lips  and  dull  yet  shining  eyes  be- 
tokened his  condition.  I  saw  before  me  a  drunk- 
ard writing  a  sermon.  The  vision  was  sufficiently 
bizarre.  A  tragedy  of  infinite  pathos  mingled  with 
a  comedy  of  hideous  yet  undeniable  humour  in  the 
live  picture.  I  neither  wept  nor  did  I  laugh.  I 
only  watched,  shrouded  by  the  inarticulate  night. 
The  doctor  took  a  pull  at  the  bottle,  then  swept 
the  leaves  of  the  Bible.  .  .  . 

u  Let  me  die  the  death  of  the   righteous,"    he 

murmured  thickly.     "  That 's  it  —  that 's  —  that 's 

He  wrote  on  the  paper  before  him  with  a 

wandering  pen,  then  pushed  the  sheet   from  him. 

It  fell  on  the  floor  by  the  window. 

"  And  let  my  last  end  be  like  his —     Ah  —  ah  !  " 

He  drank  again,  and  again  wrote  with  fury. 
How  old  and  how  wicked  he  looked,  yet  how  sad  ! 
He  crouched  down  over  the  table  and  the  pen 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          129 

broke  in  his  hand.  A  dull  exclamation  burst  from 
him.  Taking  up  the  bottle,  he  poured  by  accident 
some  of  the  whiskey  over  the  open  Bible. 

"  A  baptism  !  A  baptism  !  "  he  ejaculated,  burst- 
ing into  laughter.  "  Now  —  now  —  let 's  see  — 
let  's  see." 

Again  he  violently  turned  the  sodden  leaves  and 
shook  his  head.  He  could  not  read  the  words, 
and  that  angered  him.  He  drank  again  and  again 
till  the  bottle  was  empty,  then  staggered  out  of  the 
room.  I  heard  his  frantic  footsteps  echoing  in  the 
uncarpeted  passage.  Quickly  I  leaned  in  at  the 
window  and  caught  up  the  sheet  of  paper  that  had 
fallen  to  the  floor.  I  held  it  up  to  the  light. 
Only  one  sentence  writhed  up  and  down  over  it, 
repeated  a  dozen  times;  "There  is  no  God!" 
While  I  read  I  heard  the  doctor  returning,  and  I 
shrank  back  into  the  night.  He  came  stumbling 
in,  another  whiskey  bottle  full  in  his  hand.  Fall- 
ing down  in  the  chair  he  applied  his  lips  to  it  and 
drank  —  on  and  on.  He  was  killing  himself 
there  and  then.  I  knew  it.  I  wanted  to  leap 
into  the  room,  to  stop  him,  yet  I  only  watched 
him.  Why  ?  —  I  want  to  know  why  — 

At  last  he  fell  forward  across  the  Bible  with  a 
choking  noise.  His  limbs  struggled.  His  arms 
shot  out  wildly,  the  table  broke  under  him  —  there 
was  a  crash  of  glass.  The  lamp  was  extinguished. 
Darkness  crowded  the  little  room  —  and  silence. 


1 3o  BYE-WAYS 

The  papers  recorded  the  shocking  death  of  a 
minister.  They  did  not  record  this. 

As  I  stole  home  that  night,  alone  in  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  doctor's  appalling  end,  I  heard  going 
before  me  light  and  tripping  footsteps,  those,  appa- 
rently, of  some  youth,  not  above  three  yards  or  so 
from  me.  What  wanderer  thus  preceded  me,  I 
asked  myself,  with  a  certain  tingling  of  the  nerves, 
shaken,  perhaps,  by  what  I  had  just  seen  ?  1 
paused.  The  steps  also  paused.  The  person  was 
stopping  too.  I  resumed  my  way.  Again  I  heard 
the  tripping  footfalls.  Their  sound  greatly  dis- 
quieted me,  yet  I  hurried,  intending  to  catch  up 
the  wayfarer.  Still  the  steps  hastened  along  the 
highway,  and  always  just  before  me.  I  ran,  yet 
did  not  come  up  with  any  person.  I  called 
"  Stop  !  Stop  !  "  There  was  no  reply.  Again  I 
waited.  This  man  —  or  boy  —  (the  steps  seemed 
young)  waited  also.  I  started  forward  once  more. 
So  did  he.  Then  a  fury  of  fear  ran  over  me,  urg- 
ing me  at  all  hazards  to  see  in  whose  train  I  trav- 
elled. We  were  now  close  to  Carlounie.  We 
entered  the  policies.  Yes,  this  person  turned  from 
the  public  road  through  my  gates  into  the  drive, 
and  the  footfalls  reached  the  very  house.  I 
stopped.  I  dared  not  approach  quite  close  to  the 
door.  With  trembling  fingers  I  fumbled  in  my 
pocket,  drew  out  my  match-box,  and,  in  the  airless 
night,  struck  a  match.  The  tiny  flame  burned 
steadily.  I  stretched  my  hand  out,  approaching  it, 
as  I  supposed,  to  the  face  of  the  stranger. 


A   TRIBUTE    OF    SOULS  131 

But  I  saw  nothing.  Only,  on  a  sudden,  I 
heard  some  one  hasten  from  me  across  the  sweep 
of  gravel  in  the  direction  of  the  burn.  And  then, 
after  an  interval,  I  heard  the  rush  of  startled  sheep 
through  the  night. 

Just  so  had  they  scattered  on  the  day  I  spoke 
with  the  grey  traveller  by  the  waterside. 


Ill 

THE     SOUL    OF     KATE     WALTERS 

IT  is  more  than  two  years  since  I  wrote  down 
any  incident  of  my  life.  Two  years  ago  I  seemed 
to  myself  a  stranger.  To-day  an  intimacy  has 
sprung  up  between  myself  and  that  observant,  de- 
tached something  within  me  —  that  little  extra 
spirit  which  looks  on  at  me,  and  yet  is,  somehow, 
me.  I  am  at  home  with  my  own  power.  I  am 
accustomed  to  my  strength  of  personality.  From 
my  fever  I  rose  like  some  giant.  Long  ago  my 
world  recognised  the  obedience  it  owed  me.  Long 
ago,  by  many  signs,  in  many  ways,  it  taught  me 
the  paramount  quality  of  the  emanation  from  my 
soul  that  is  called  my  influence.  Yet  sometimes, 
even  now,  I  seem  to  stare  at  myself  aghast,  to 
turn  cold  when  I  am  alone  with  myself.  I  am 
seized  with  terrible  fancies.  I  think  of  the  voice 
of  the  burn.  I  think  of  that  childish  Autumn 


132  BYE-WAYS 

ceremony  upon  its  bank  among  the  mists  and  the 
flying  leaves.  I  think  of  the  grey  youth  who 
spoke  with  me  in  the  twilight,  and  my  soul  is 
full  of  questions.  I  muse  upon  the  Wandering 
Jew,  upon  Faust,  upon  Van  Der  Decken,  upon 
the  monstrous  figures  that  are  legends,  yet  some- 
times realities  to  men.  And  then — and  this  is 
ghastly  —  I  say  to  myself,  can  it  be  that  I,  too, 
shall  become  a  legend  ?  Can  it  be  that  my  name 
will  be  whispered  by  the  pale  lips  of  good  men 
long  after  I  am  dead  ?  For,  is  there  not  a  whirl 
of  white  faces  attending  my  progress  as  the  whirl 
of  dead  leaves  attends  the  Autumn  ?  Do  I  not 
hear  a  faint  symphony  of  despairing  cries  like  a 
dreadful  music  about  my  life  ?  Is  not  my  power 
upon  men  malign  ?  Boys  with  their  hopes  shat- 
tered, men  with  their  faiths  broken,  women  with 
their  love  turned  to  gall  —  do  they  not  crowd 
about  my  chariot  wheels  ?  Or  is  it  my  vain  fancy 
that  they  do  ?  Here  and  there  from  the  sea  of 
these  beings  one  rises  like  a  drowned  creature 
whom  the  ocean  will  not  hide,  stark,  stiff,  corpse- 
like.  Doctor  Wedderburn  was  the  first.  Kate 
Walters  is  the  second  —  Kate  Walters. 

When  my  convalescence  was  well  advanced  she 
left  Carlounie  and  went  back  to  Edinburgh.  Some 
months  afterwards  I  heard  casually  that  she  was 
working  in  an  hospital  there.  But  a  year  and  a 
half  went  by  before  I  saw  this  girl  again.  Her 


A    TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS  133 

fresh,  pure,  ministering  face  had  nearly  faded  from 
my  memory.  Yet,  she  had  attended  intimately 
upon  my  marvellous  transformation  from  my  death 
of  weakness  to  the  life  of  strength.  She  had  lifted 
me  in  her  girl's  arms  when  I  was  nothing.  Yes, 
I  had  been  in  her  arms  then.  How  strange,  how 
close  are  the  commonest  relations  between  the 
invalid  and  his  nurse  !  When  I  chanced  to  meet 
Kate  again  I  had  no  thought  of  this.  I  had  for- 
gotten. I  came  to  Edinburgh  on  some  business 
connected  with  a  mine  discovered  on  my  estate, 
which  seemed  likely  to  make  a  great  fortune  for 
me,  and  is  already  on  the  way  to  accomplishing 
this  first  duty  of  a  mine.  My  business  done,  I 
stayed  on  at  my  hotel  in  Princes  Street  amusing 
myself,  for  I  had  a  multitude  of  friends  in  Edin- 
burgh. One  of  these  friends  was  a  medical  student 
attached  to  the  hospital  there,  and  he  chanced  to 
invite  me  to  go  with  him  through  the  wards  one 
day.  In  one  of  the  wards  I  encountered  Kate 
Walters,  fresh,  clear,  calm  as  in  the  old  Carlounie 
days  of  my  illness.  She  did  not  know  me  till  I 
recalled  myself  to  her  recollection ;  then  she 
looked  into  my  face  with  the  frankest  astonish- 
ment. My  superb  physique  amazed  her,  although 
she  had  attended  upon  its  beginnings.  I  asked 
after  her  life  in  the  interval  since  our  last  meeting ; 
and  she  told  me,  with  a  delightful  blush,  that  her 
period  of  nursing  was  nearly  concluded,  as  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  one  Hugh  Eraser,  a 


i34  BYE-WAYS 

handsome,  rich,  and  —  strange  thing  this  !  —  most 
steadfast  youth,  who  lived  in  England  in  the  south, 
and  who  loved  her  tenderly.  I  congratulated  her, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  moving  away  down  the 
ward  with  my  friend  when  my  eyes  were  caught 
again  by  Kate's  blushing  cheeks  and  eyes  alight 
with  the  fiery  shames  and  joys  of  love.  How 
beautiful  is  the  human  face  when  the  torches  of 
the  heart  are  kindled  thus.  How  beautiful  !  I 
paused,  and,  before  I  went,  invited  Kate  to  tea  one 
afternoon  at  my  hotel.  She  accepted  the  invitation. 
Why  not  ?  In  our  meeting  the  old  chain  of  sym- 
pathy between  patient  and  nurse  seemed  forged 
anew.  We  felt  that  we  were  indeed  friends.  As 
we  left  the  ward,  my  student  chum  chaffed  me  — 
I  let  his  words  go  by  heedlessly.  I  was  not  in 
love  with  Kate,  but  I  was  half  in  love  with  her 
love  for  Hugh  Fraser.  It  had  such  pretty  features. 
She  came  to  tea  and  told  me  all  about  him  ;  and 
when  she  talked  of  him  she  was  so  fascinating  that 
I  was  loath  to  let  her  go.  It  was  a  sweet  evening, 
and,  as  Kate  had  not  to  be  back  at  the  hospital 
early,  I  suggested  that  we  should  go  for  a  stroll 
on  Carlton  Hill,  and  talk  a  little  more  about  Hugh 
Fraser.  The  bribe  tempted  her.  I  saw  that. 
And  she  agreed  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

There  is  certainly  an  influence  that  lives  only 
out  of  doors  and  can  never  enter  a  house,  or 
exercise  itself  within  four  walls.  There  is  a 
wandering  spirit  in  the  air  of  evening,  a  soul 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          135 

that  walks  with  gathering  shadows,  speaks  in  the 
distant  hum  of  a  city,  and  gazes  through  its  twink- 
ling lights.  There  is  a  grey  traveller  who  journeys  in 
the  twilight.  (What  am  I  saying  ?  To-day,  as  I 
write,  I  am  full  of  fancies.)  I  felt  that,  so  soon  as 
Kate  and  I  were  away  from  the  hotel,  out  under 
the  sky  and  amid  the  mysteries  of  Edinburgh,  we 
were  changed.  In  a  flash  our  intimacy  advanced, 
the  sympathy  already  existing  between  us  deepened. 
Leaving  the  streets,  we  mounted  the  flight  of  steps 
that  leads  to  the  hill,  and  joined  the  few  couples 
who  were  walking,  almost  like  gods  on  some 
Olympus,  above  the  world.  They  were  all  obvi- 
ously lovers.  I  pointed  this  fact  out  to  Kate,  say^ 
ing,  "  Hugh  Fraser  should  be  here,  not  I." 

She  smiled,  but  scarcely,  I  thought,  with  much 
regret.  For  the  moment  it  seemed  that  a  con- 
fidant satisfied  her;  and  this  pleased  me.  I  drew 
her  arm  within  mine. 

"  We  must  not  alarm  the  lovers,"  I  said.  "We 
must  appear  to  be  as  they  are,  or  we  shall  carry  a 
fiery  sword  into  their  Eden." 

"You  seem  to  understand  us  very  well,"  she 
answered  with  a  smile.  And  she  left  her  arm  in 
mine. 

The  mention  of  "  us  "  chilled  me.  It  seemed 
to  set  me  outside  a  magic  circle  within  which  she, 
Hugh  Fraser,  these  people  sauntering  near  us,  like 
amorous  ghosts  in  the  dimness,  moved.  I  pressed 
her  arm  ever  so  gently. 


136  BYE-WAYS 

"Tell  me  how  lovers  feel  at  such  a  time  as 
this,"  I  whispered,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

From  Carlton  Hill  at  night  one  sees  a  heaving 
ocean  of  yellow  lights,  gleaming  like  phosphor- 
escence on  ebon  waves.  Towards  Arthur's  Seat, 
towards  the  Castle,  they  rise  ;  by  Holyrood,  by  the 
old  town,  they  fall.  That  night  I  could  fancy  that 
this  sea  of  light  spoke  to  me,  murmured  in  my  ear, 
urging  me  to  prosecute  my  will,  ruthlessly  stirring 
a  strange  and,  perhaps,  evanescent  romance  in  my 
heart.  I  know  that  when  I  parted  from  Kate  that 
night  I  bent  and  kissed  her.  I  know  that  she 
looked  up  at  me  startled,  even  terrified,  yet  found 
no  voice  to  rebuke  me.  I  know  that  I  did  not 
leave  Edinburgh,  as  I  had  originally  intended,  upon 
the  morrow.  And  I  know  this  best  of  all  —  that 
I  had  no  ill-intent  in  staying.  I  was  caught  in  a 
net  of  impulse  despite  my  own  desire.  I  was  held 
fast.  There  are  —  I  believe  it  unalterably  now  — 
influences  in  life  that  are  the  very  Tsars  of  the 
empires  of  men's  souls.  They  must  be  obeyed. 
Possibly  —  is  it  so  I  wonder? — they  only  mount 
upon  their  thrones  when  they  are  urgently  invoked 
by  men  who,  as  it  were,  say,  "  Come  and  rule  over 
us  !  "  But  once  that  invocation  has  been  made, 
once  it  has  been  responded  to,  there  is  never  again 
free  will  for  him  who  has  rashly  called  upon  the 
power  he  does  not  understand,  and  bowed  before 
the  tyrant  whose  face  he  has  not  seen.  I  tremble 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          137 

now,  as  I  write  ;  I  tremble  as  does  the  bond  slave. 
Yet  I  neither  speak  with,  nor  hear,  nor  have  sight 
of,  my  master.  Unless,  indeed  —  but  I  will  not 
give  way  to  any  madness  of  the  brain.  No,  no  ;  I 
do  not  hear,  I  do  not  see,  although  I  am  conscious 
of,  my  Tsar,  whose  unemancipated  serf  I  am. 

I  need  not  tell  all  the  story  of  my  soul's  impres- 
sion that  was  stamped  upon  the  soul  of  Kate 
Walters.  Perhaps  it  is  old.  Certainly  it  is  sad. 
I  stamped  deceit  upon  the  nature  which  had  not 
known  it,  knowledge  of  evil  where  only  purity  had 
been,  satiety  upon  temperance.  And,  worst  of  all, 
I  expelled  from  this  girl's  heart  love  for  a  good 
man  who  loved  her,  and  planted,  in  its  stead,  pas- 
sion for  a  —  must  I  say  a  bad,  or  may  I  not  cry,  a 
driven  man?  And  all  this  time  Hugh  Fraser 
knew  nothing  of  his  sorrow,  growing  up  swiftly 
to  meet  him  like  a  giant.  Even  now,  while  I 
write  these  words,  he  knows  nothing  of  it.  As  I 
had  carelessly  taken  possession  of  the  mind,  the 
very  nature  of  Dr  Wedderburn,  so  now  I  took 
possession  of  the  very  nature  of  Kate  Walters. 
My  immense  strength,  my  abounding  physical 
glory  drew  her  —  who  had  known  me  a  puny 
invalid  —  irresistibly.  I  won  the  doctor  by  my 
mind  ;  this  girl,  in  the  main,  I  think,  by  my  body. 
And  when  at  length  I  tired  of  her  slightly,  the 
woman,  the  gentle  woman,  sprang  up  a  tigress.  I 
had  said  one  night  that,  since  I  was  obliged  to  go  to 
London,  we  must  part  for  a  while.  I  had  added 


138  BYE-WAYS 

that  it  was  well  Hugh    Fraser  lived  in  complete 
ignorance  of  his  betrayal. 

"  Why  ?  "  Kate  suddenly  cried  out. 

"  Because  —  because  it  is  best  so.     He  and  you 

—  some  day." 

I  paused.  She  understood  my  meaning.  In- 
stantly the  tigress  had  sprung  upon  me.  The 
scene  that  followed  was  eloquent.  I  learned  what 
lives  and  moves  in  the  very  depths  of  a  nature, 
stirred  by  the  inexhaustible  greed  of  passion, 
twisted  by  passion's  fulfilment,  the  ardent  touched 
by  the  inert.  But  upon  that  hurricane  has  fol- 
lowed an  immense  and  very  strange  calm.  Kate 
is  almost  cold  to  me,  though  very  sweet.  She  has 
acquiesced  in  my  departure  for  town.  She  has 
come  to  one  mind  with  me  on  the  subject  of 
Hugh  Fraser.  More,  she  has  even  written  a  letter 
to  him  asking  him  to  come  to  her,  pressing  for- 
ward their  marriage,  and  I  am  to  be  the  bearer 
of  it  to  him.  This  is  only  a  woman's  whim.  She 
insists  that  I  must  see  once  the  man  who  is  to  be 
her  husband. 

So,  after  all,  the  tragedy  of  Dr  Wedderburn  is 
not  to  be  repeated.  I  —  I  shall  not  hear,  stealing 
along  the  steep  and  windy  streets  of  Edinburgh,  any 

—  any  strange  footsteps. 

What  is  the  awful  fate  that  pursues  me  ?  A 
year  ago  I  left  Edinburgh  carrying  with  me  the 
letter  which  I  understood  to  contain  the  request 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          139 

of  Kate  Walters  to  her  lover,  Hugh  Fraser,  to 
hasten  on  their  marriage.  As  the  train  roared 
southwards,  I  congratulated  myself  on  my  clever 
management  of  a  woman.  I  had,  it  is  true, 
stepped  in  between  Kate  and  the  calm  happiness 
she  had  been  anticipating  when  I  first  met  her  in 
the  hospital  ward.  But  now  I  had  withdrawn. 
And,  I  told  myself,  in  time.  All  would  be  well. 
This  girl  would  marry  the  boy  who  loved  her.  She 
would  deceive  him.  He  would  never  know  that  the 
girl  he  married  was  not  the  girl  he  originally  loved. 
He  would  never  perceive  that  a  human  being  had 
intervened  between  her  and  purity,  truth,  honour. 
In  this  letter  —  I  touched  it  with  my  fingers,  con- 
gratulating myself —  Hugh  Fraser  would  read  the 
summons  to  the  future  he  desired,  the  future  with 
Kate  Walters.  His  soul  would  rush  to  meet  hers, 
and  surely,  after  a  little  while,  hers  would  cease  to 
hold  back.  She  would  really  once  more  be  as  she 
had  been.  I  forgot  that  no  human  soul  can  ever 
retreat  from  knowledge  to  ignorance. 

Hugh  Fraser's  rooms  in  London  were  in  Picca' 
dilly.  Directly  I  arrived  in  town  I  wrote  him 
a  note,  saying  that  I  was  from  Edinburgh  with 
a  message  from  Kate  Walters  for  him.  I  ex- 
plained that  she  had  nursed  me  through  a  severe 
illness,  and  hoped  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of 
making  his  acquaintance.  In  reply,  I  received  a 
most  friendly  note,  begging  me  to  call  at  an  hour 
on  the  evening  of  the  following  day. 


140  BYE-WAYS 

That  evening  I  drove  in  a  hansom  from  the 
Grand  Hotel  to  Piccadilly,  taking  Kate's  note  with 
me.  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain  excitement,  and 
also  of  a  certain  moral  exultation.  Ridiculously 
enough,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  about  to  perform  a  sort 
of  fine,  almost  paternal  act,  blessing  these  children 
with  genuine,  as  opposed  to  stage,  emotion.  Yes ; 
I  glowed  with  a  consciousness  of  personal  merit. 
How  incredible  human  beings  are  !  Arrived  at 
Hugh  Eraser's  rooms,  I  was  at  once  shown  in. 
How  vividly  I  remember  that  first  interview  of 
ours,  the  exact  condition  of  the  room,  Hugh's 
attitude  of  lively  anticipation,  the  precise  way  in 
which  he  held  his  cigarette,  the  grim,  short  bark 
of  the  fox-terrier  that  sprang  up  from  a  sofa  when 
I  came  in.  Hugh  was  almost  twenty-four  years 
old,  rather  tall,  slim,  with  intense,  large,  dark  eyes 
—  full  of  shining  cheerfulness  just  then  —  very 
short,  curling  black  hair,  and  fine,  straight  features. 
His  expression  was  boyish  j  so  were  his  move- 
ments. As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  sprang  forward 
and  gave  me  an  enthusiastic  welcome  —  for  the 
sake  of  Kate,  I  knew.  He  led  me  to  the  fire 
and  made  me  sit  down.  I  at  once  handed  him 
my  credentials,  Kate's  letter.  His  face  flushed 
with  pleasure,  and  his  fingers  twitched  with  the 
desire  to  tear  it  open,  but  he  refrained  politely, 
and  began  to  talk  - —  about  her,  I  confess.  I 
understood  in  three  minutes  how  deeply  he  was 
in  love  with  her.  I  told  him  all  about  her  that 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          141 

might  please  him,  and  hinted  at  the  contents  of  the 
letter. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed  joyously.  u  She  wants 
to  hasten  on  our  marriage  at  last.  And  she  's  kept 
me  off —  but  you  know  what  girls  are !  She 
could  n't  leave  the  hospital  immediately.  She 
swore  it.  There  were  a  thousand  reasons  for 
delay.  But  now  —  by  Jove !  " 

His  eyes  were  suddenly  radiant,  and  he  clutched 
hold  of  my  hand  like  a  schoolboy. 

"  You  are  a  good  chap  to  bring  me  such  a  letter," 
he  cried. 

"  Read  it,"  I  said,  again  filled  with  moral  self- 
satisfaction,  vain,  paltry  egoist  that  I  was. 

"  No,  no  —  presently." 

But  I  insisted ;  and  at  length  he  complied,  en- 
chanted to  yield  to  my  importunity.  He  opened 
the  letter,  and,  as  he  broke  the  seal,  his  face  was 
like  morning.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  change 
that  grew  in  it  as  he  read.  When  he  had  finished 
his  face  was  like  starless  night.  He  looked  old, 
haggard,  black,  shrunken.  I  watched  him  with  a 
sensation  that  something  had  gone  wrong  with  my 
sight.  Surely  radiance  was  fully  before  me  and 
my  tricked  vision  saw  it  as  despair.  Raising  his 
blank,  bleak  eyes  from  the  letter,  Hugh  stared 
towards  me  and  opened  his  lips.  But  no  sound 
came  from  them.  He  frowned,  as  if  in  fury  at  his 
own  dumbness.  Then  at  last,  with  a  sharp  shake  of 
his  head  sideways,  he  said  in  a  low  and  dry  voice : 


142  BYE-WAYS 

"  You  know  what  is  in  this  letter,  you  say  ?  " 
"  I  —  I  thought  so,"  I   answered,  growing  cold 
and  filled  with  anxiety. 

"  Well,  read  it,  will  you  ?  " 

I  took  the  paper  from  his  hand  and  read  :  — 

«*  DEAR  HUGH,  —  Make  the  man  who  brings  you  this 
letter  marry  me.  If  you  don't,  I  will  kill  myself ;  for  I 
am  ruined.  KATE." 

I  looked  up  at  Hugh  Fraser  over  the  letter  which 
my  hand  still  mechanically  held  near  my  eyes.  I 
wonder  how  long  the  silence  through  which  we 
stared  lasted. 

A  month  later  I  was  married  to  Kate  Walters  ' 


IV 

THE    SOUL    OF    HUGH     FRASER 

IT  may  seem  strange  that  my  influence  upon  the 
soul  of  Hugh  Fraser  should  follow  upon  such  a 
situation  as  I  have  just  described ;  but  everything 
connected  with  my  life,  since  the  day  when  I  met 
the  grey  boy  by  the  burn,  has  been  utterly  strange, 
utterly  abnormal.  My  treachery,  one  would  have 
thought,  must  have  led  Fraser  to  hate  me.  I  had 
wrecked  his  happiness.  I  had  done  him  the 
deepest  injury  one  man  can  do  to  another,  and  at 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          143 

first  he  hated  me.  When  he  had  wrung  from  me 
a  promise  to  marry  Kate,  he  left  me,  and  I  did  not 
see  him  again  until  after  the  wedding.  But  then, 
it  seemed,  he  could  not  keep  away  from  her.  For 
he  forgave  us  the  wrong  we  had  done  him;  and, 
after  a  while,  wrote  a  friendly  letter  in  which  he 
suggested  that  we  should  all  forget  the  past. 

u  Why  should  I  not  see  you  sometimes  ?  "  he 
concluded.  "  I  only  wish  you  both  good,  there  is 
no  longer  any  evil  in  my  heart." 

Poor  boy !  It  was  to  be,  I  suppose.  The  Tsar 
of  the  empire  of  my  soul  set  forth  his  edict,  and 
one  winter  day  carriage  wheels  ground  harshly 
upon  the  gravel  sweep,  and  Hugh  Fraser  was  my 
guest  at  Carlounie.  I  welcomed  him  upon  the 
very  spot  where  those  light  footsteps  paused  that 
black  night  of  Doctor  Wedderburn's  dreary  end. 
And  the  faint  sound  of  the  burn  mingled  with  oui 
voices  in  greeting  and  reply. 

The  boy  was  changed.  He  had  aged,  grown 
grave,  heavier  in  movement,  fiercer  in  observation, 
less  ready  in  speech.  But  his  manner  was  friendly 
even  to  me,  and  it  was  plain  to  see  that  Kate  still 
had  his  heart.  They  met  quietly  enough,  but  a 
flush  ran  from  his  cheek  to  hers  as  they  touched 
hands.  Their  voices  quivered  when  they  spoke 
a  commonplace  of  pleasure  at  the  encounter.  So 
the  wheels  of  Fate  began  slowly  to  turn  on  this 
winter's  day. 

I    must  tell  you   that   my  fortunes  had  greatly 


I44  BYE-WAYS 

changed  before  Hugh  Fraser  came  to  Carlounie. 
I  was  grown  rich.  My  investments,  my  specula- 
tions had  prospered  almost  miraculously.  The 
mine  I  have  spoken  of  was  proving  a  gold  mine  to 
me.  All  worldly  things  went  well  with  me  —  all 
worldly  things,  yes. 

Now,  I  believe  that  all  mighty  circumstances 
are  born  tiny,  like  children,  at  some  given  moment. 
As  a  rule,  they  usually  seem  so  insignificant,  so 
puny  at  the  birth,  that  we  take  no  heed  of  the  fact 
that  they  have  come  into  being,  and  that,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  they  will  grow  to  might,  perhaps  to 
horrible  majesty.  Only,  when  we  trace  events 
backwards  do  we  know  the  exact  moment  when 
their  first  faint  wail  broke  upon  our  mental  hearing. 
Generally  this  is  so.  But  I  affirm  that  I  felt,  at 
the  very  time  of  its  first  coming,  the  presence  of  the 
shadow,  the  tiny  shadow  of  the  events  which  I  am 
about  to  describe.  I  even  said  to  myself,  "  This 
is  a  birthday." 

Among  many  improvements  on  my  estate  I  had 
built  a  new  Manse,  in  which,  of  course,  our  new 
minister  lived.  The  old  habitation  of  Doctor 
Wedderburn  stood  empty  and  deserted  among  its 
sycamores.  One  winter's  day  Hugh  Fraser,  Kate, 
and  I,  in  our  walk,  passed  along  the  lane  by  the 
now  ragged  privet  hedge  through  which  I  had  so 
often  observed  the  doctor's  agonies.  It  was  a 
black  and  white  day  of  frost,  which  crawled  along 
the  dark  trees  and  outlined  twig  and  branch.  The 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          145 

air  was  misty,  and  distant  objects  assumed  a  mys- 
terious importance.  Slight  sounds,  too,  suggested 
infinite  activities  to  the  mind.  As  we  neared  the 
Manse,  Hugh  Fraser  said  to  me  :  — 

"  Who  lives  in  that  old  house  ?  " 

"Nobody,"  I  replied. 

Hugh  glanced  at  me  very  doubtfully. 

"  Nobody,"  I  reiterated. 

"  Really,"  he  rejoined.     "  But  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Is  deserted." 

"  Hardly,"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  with  his  hand. 
«  Look  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Kate,  as  if  in  agreement. 

And  she  grew  duskily  pale. 

I  looked  over  the  privet  hedge,  seeing  only  the 
rank  and  frost-bitten  grass,  the  wild  bushes  and 
narrow  mossy  paths.  Then  I  stared  at  my  two 
companions  in  silence.  Their  eyes  appeared  to 
follow  the  onward  movement  of  some  object  invis- 
ible to  me. 

"  The  old  man  makes  himself  at  home,"  Hugh 
said.  "  He  has  gone  into  the  summer-house 
now." 

"Yes,"  Kate  said  again. 

There  was  fear  in  her  eyes. 

I  felt  suddenly  that  the  air  was  very  chill. 

"  That  house  is  unoccupied,"  I  repeated  shortly. 

We  all  walked  on  in  silence.      But,  through  our 
silence,  it  certainly  seemed  to  me  that  there  came 
a  sound  of  some  one  lamenting  in  the  garden. 
10 


146  BYE-WAYS 

A  day  or  two  later  Fraser  said  to  me  :  — 

"  Why  is  that  old  house  shut  up  ?  " 

"  Who  would  occupy  it  ?  "  I  said.  "  Of  course, 
if  I  could  get  a  tenant  —  " 

"  I  '11  take  it,"  he  rejoined  quickly.  "  You  can 
let  me  some  shooting  with  it,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  But,"  I  began  ;  and  then  I  stopped.  I  had 
an  instinct  to  keep  the  old  Manse  empty,  but  I 
fought  it,  merely  because  it  struck  me  as  unreason- 
able. How  seldom  are  our  instincts  unreasonable ! 
God  —  how  seldom ! 

"  I  've  been  looking  out  for  a  shooting- 
box,"  Hugh  said.  "  That  house  would  suit  me 
admirably." 

"All  right,"  I  answered.  "I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  have  you  for  a  tenant." 

So  it  was  arranged.  When  Kate  heard  of  the 
arrangement,  I  observed  her  to  go  very  pale;  but 
she  made  no  objection.  Hugh  Fraser  rented  the 
house,  furnished  it,  engaged  servants,  a  gardener, 
enlarged  the  stables,  and  took  up  his  abode  there. 
Doctor  Wedderburn's  old  study  was  now  his  den. 
When  I  looked  in  at  the  window  through  which  I 
had  seen  the  doctor  die,  I  saw  Fraser  smoking,  or 
playing  with  his  setters.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
the  sight  turned  me  sick. 

My  relations  with  Kate,  of  which  I  have  saiu 
nothing,  were  rather  cold  and  distant.  My  passion, 
such  as  it  was,  had  died  before  marriage.  Hers 
seemed  to  languish  afterwards.  I  believe  that  she 


A  TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          147 

had  really  loved  me,  but  that  the  shame  of  being 
with  me,  after  I  had  wedded  her  actually  against 
my  will,  struck  this  sentiment  to  the  dust.  When 
one  feeling  that  has  been  very  strong  dies,  its  place 
is  generally  filled  by  another.  Sometimes  I  fancied 
that  this  was  so  with  Kate,  that  the  bitterness  of 
shattered  self-respect  gradually  transformed  her 
nature,  that  a  cruel  frost  bound  the  tendernesses, 
the  warm  vagaries  of  what  had  been  a  sweet 
woman's  heart.  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not 
trouble  much  about  the  matter.  My  affairs  were 
prospering  so  greatly,  my  health  was  so  abounding, 
1  had  so  much  beside  the  mere  egotism  of  brilliant 
physical  strength  to  occupy  me,  that  I  was  heed- 
less, reckless  —  at  first.  Yet,  I  had  moments  of 
a  dull  alarm  connected  with  the  dweller  at  the 
Manse. 

If  Hugh  Fraser  changed  as  he  read  that  fatefu. 
letter  in  London,  he  changed  far  more  after  he 
came  to  live  at  the  Manse.  And  it  seemed  to  me 
that  there  were  times  when  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ? 
—  when  he  bore  a  curious,  and,  to  me,  almost  in- 
tolerable likeness  to —  some  one  who  was  dead.  A 
certain  old  man's  manner  came  upon  him  at 
moments.  His  body,  in  sitting  or  standing,  as- 
sumed, to  my  eyes,  elderly  and  damnable  attitudes. 
Once,  when  I  glanced  in  at  the  study  window 
before  entering  the  Manse,  I  perceived  him  loung- 
ing over  a  table  facing  me,  a  pen  in  his  hand  and 
paper  before  him,  and  the  spectacle  threw  all  my 


148  BYE-WAYS 

senses  into  a  violent  and  most  distressing  disorder. 
Instead  of  going  into  the  house,  as  I  had  intended, 
I  struck  sharply  upon  the  glass  at  the  window. 
Fraser  looked  up  quickly. 

"  What  —  what  are  you  writing  ?  "  I  cried  out. 

He  got  up,  came  to  the  window,  and  opened  it. 

"  Eh  ?  What 's  the  row,  man  ? "  he  said.  "  Why 
don't  you  come  in  ?  " 

I  repeated  my  question,  with  an  anxiety  I  strove 
to  mask. 

"Writing?  Only  a  letter  to  town,"  he  said, 
looking  at  me  in  wonder. 

"  Not  a  sermon  ?  "  I  blurted  forth. 

"  A  sermon  ?  Good  heavens,  no.  Why  should 
I  write  a  sermon  ? " 

"  Oh,"  I  replied,  forcing  an  uneasy  laugh. 
"You  —  you  live  in  a  Manse.  Doctor  Wedder- 
burn  used  to  write  his  sermons  in  that  room." 

That  evening  I  remember  that  I  said  to  Kate  : 

"  Don't  you  think  Fraser  is  getting  to  look  very 
old  at  times  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  observed  it,"  she  replied  coldly. 

Another  curious  thing.  Very  soon  after  he 
took  up  his  abode  in  the  Manse,  Fraser,  who  had 
been  a  godly  youth,  became  markedly  averse  to 
religion.  He  informed  us,  with  some  excitement, 
that  he  had  changed  his  views,  and  seemed  much 
inclined  to  carry  on  an  atheistical  propaganda 
among  the  devout  people  of  the  neighbourhood. 
He  declared  that  much  evil  had  been  wrought  by 


A    TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          149 

faith  in  Carlounie,  and  appeared  to  deem  it  as  his 
special  duty  to  preach  some  sort  of  a  crusade 
against  the  accepted  Christianity  of  the  parish.  I 
began  to  combat  his  views,  and  once  sought  the 
reason  of  his  ardour  and  self-election  to  the  post 
of  teacher.  His  answer  struck  me  exceedingly. 
He  said:  — 

"  Why  should  I  be  the  one  to  clear  away  these 
senseless  beliefs  in  phantasms,  you  say  ?  Why, 
because  I  suppose  they  were  woven  by  my  prede- 
cessor in  the  Manse.  Did  n't  the  minister  live  and 
die  there  ?  Do  you  know,  Ralston,  sometimes,  as 
I  sit  in  that  study  at  night,  I  have  a  feeling  that 
instead  of  turning  to  what  is  called  repentance 
when  he  died,  the  minister  turned  the  other  way, 
recanted  in  his  last  hour  the  faith  he  had  professed 
all  through  his  life,  and  expired  before  he  could 
give  words  to  his  new  mind  and  heart.  And  then 
I  feel  as  if  his  influence  was  left  behind  him  in 
that  room,  and  fell  upon  me  and  imposed  on  me 
this  mission." 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  suddenly  plucked  at  his 
face  with  an  old,  habitual  action  of  Doctor  Wed- 
derburn's  when  excited.  I  scarcely  restrained  a 
cry,  and  with  difficulty  forced  myself  to  go  out 
slowly  from  his  presence.  Nevertheless,  I  felt 
strongly  impelled  to  fight  against  the  atheism  of 
this  boy,  I  who  had  formerly  sown  the  seeds  of 
destruction  in  the  soul  of  Doctor  Wedderburn. 
But  it  was  as  if  my  own  act  of  the  past  rose  and 


1 50  BYE-WAYS 

conquered  me  in  the  present.  I  declare  solemnly 
it  was  so.  Some  emanation  from  the  poor  dead 
creature's  soul  clung  round  that  cursed  place  of  his 
doom,  and,  seizing  upon  the  soul  of  Fraser,  spread 
tyranny  from  its  throne.  And  whom  did  it  take 
first  as  its  victim,  think  you  ?  Kate,  my  wife. 

Let  our  individual  beliefs  be  what  they  may,  one 
thing  we  must  all  —  when  we  think  —  acknowl- 
edge, that  the  pulse  which  beats  eternally  in  the 
heart  of  life  is  reparation. 

Kate,  as  I  have  said,  was  originally  finely  pure 
and  finely  dowered  with  the  blessings  of  faith  in  a 
divine  Providence,  trust  in  the  eventual  redemption 
of  the  world,  hope  that  sin,  sorrow,  and  sighing 
would,  indeed,  flee  away,  and  all  mankind  find 
eternal  and  unutterable  peace.  In  my  worst  mo- 
ments I  had  never  tried  to  destroy  this  beauty  of 
her  soul ;  and,  in  her  fall,  now  repaired,  she  had 
never  abandoned  her  religion.  It  was,  I  know,  a 
haunting  memory  of  the  last  moments  of  the  doctor 
that  held  me  back  from  ever  attacking  the  faith 
of  another.  For  myself,  I  did  not  think  much  of 
my  future  beyond  death.  Life  filled  my  horizon 
then. 

But  now,  after  a  short  absence  in  England,  dur- 
ing which  I  left  Kate  at  Carlounie,  I  returned  to 
find  her  infected  with  Eraser's  pestilent  notions. 
She  declined  to  go  to  the  kirk,  declaring  that  it  was 
better  to  act  up  to  her  real  convictions  than  to  set 
what  is  called  a  good  example  to  her  dependants. 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          151 

She  and  Fraser  gloried  openly  in  their  new-found 
damnation.  I  say  damnation,  for  this  was  actually 
how  the  matter  struck  me  when  I  began  carefully 
to  consider  it.  Men  often  see  only  what  irreligion 
really  is  and  means  when  they  find  it  existing  in  a 
woman.  I  was  appalled  at  this  deadly  fire  flaring 
up  in  the  heart  of  Kate,  and  I  set  myself,  at  first 
feebly,  at  length  determinedly,  to  quench  it  and 
stamp  it  out. 

But  I  fought  against  my  own  former  self.  I 
fought  against  the  influence  of  the  spectre  that 
surely  haunted  the  Manse,  and  that  spectre  rose 
originally  from  the  very  bosom  of  the  burn  at  my 
summons.  Am  I  mad  to  think  so  ?  No,  no.  Oh, 
the  eternal  horror  that  may  spring  from  one  wild 
and  lawless  action,  from  the  recital  of  one  diabolic 
litany !  This  was,  surely  the  strangest,  subtlest 
reparation  that  ever  beat  in  the  inexorable  heart  of 
Life.  Hugh  Fraser  was  enveloped  by  the  influence, 
still  retained  mysteriously  in  his  abode,  of  the  soul 
that  was  gone  to  its  account.  Through  him  it 
seized  upon  Kate,  and  thus  the  mystic  number  was 
made  up,  three  souls  were  bound  and  linked  to- 
gether. (I  hear  as  I  write  the  voice  of  the  grey 
traveller  by  the  burn  in  the  twilight.)  And  in  the 
first  soul  I  had  planted  the  seed  of  death,  and  so  in 
the  second  and  in  the  third.  Now,  thrusting  as  it 
were  backward  through  Kate  and  Hugh  Fraser,  I 
fought  with  a  dead  man,  long  ago,  perhaps,  wrapped 
in  pain  unknown.  But,  as  the  influence  of  Doctor 


1 52  BYE-WAYS 

Wedderburn  had  formerly  —  before  the  fever  — 
dominated  my  influence,  so  now  it  dominated  my 
influence  from  the  tomb.  Indeed,  this  man  whom 
I  had  destroyed  had  a  drear  revenge  upon  me. 
There  had  been  an  interregnum  when  the  doctor 
wavered  from  Christianity  to  atheism.  But  that 
had  ceased  to  be.  He  died  undoubting,  a  blatant 
unbeliever.  Hence,  surely,  his  deadly  power  now. 
He  returned,  as  it  were,  to  slay  me.  The  spectre 
at  the  Manse  defied  me. 

Slowly  I  grew  to  feel,  to  know,  all  this.  It  did 
not  come  upon  me  in  a  moment ;  for  sometimes 
my  worldly  affairs  still  occupied  me.  My  glory  of 
health  and  of  strength  still  delighted  me.  I  was  as 
Faust  —  I  was  as  Faust  in  his  monstrous  and  dam- 
nable youth.  But  there  came  a  time  when  the 
spectre  at  the  Manse  touched  me  with  the  hand  of 
Hugh  Fraser.  And  then  I  rose  up  to  battle  with 
it,  trembling  at  the  thought  of  the  grey  boy's 
words  at  the  thought  of  the  Csesar  of  hell  whose 
tribute  was  three  human  souls. 

Kate  and  I  were  taking  tea  one  evening  with 
Fraser.  We  sat  around  the  hearth,  by  which  was 
placed  the  table  with  the  tea-service  and  the  hot 
cakes.  Fraser  began,  as  was  his  habit  now,  to  dis- 
cuss religious  subjects  and  to  rail  against  the  pro- 
fessors of  faith.  Kate  listened  to  him  eagerly  —  a 
filthy  fire,  so  I  thought,  gleaming  in  her  great  eyes. 
I  was  silent,  watching.  And  presently  it  seemed 
to  me  that  Fraser's  gestures  in  talking  grew  like  the 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          153 

dead  gestures  of  the  doctor.  He  threw  his  hands 
abroad  with  the  fingers  divided  in  a  manner  of 
Wedderburn's.  He  struck  his  knees  sharply,  and 
simultaneously,  with  both  his  palms  to  emphasise 
his  remarks,  a  frequent  habit  of  the  dead  man's.  So 
vehement  was  the  similarity  that  I  began  presently  to 
feel  that  the  doctor  himself  declaimed  in  the  firelight, 
and  I  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  combat  effectively 
his  wicked,  but  forcible  arguments.  I  broke  in, 
then,  upon  Eraser's  tirade  and  cried  the  cause  of 
religion.  He  turned  upon  me,  dealt  with  my  pleas, 
scattered  my  contentions  —  growing,  I  fancied,  very 
old  and  with  the  rumbling  voice  of  age,  —  thrust  at 
me  with  the  lances  of  sarcasm,  sore  belaboured  me 
into  silence  and  mute  fury.  And  all  the  time  Kate 
sat  by,  and  I  seemed  to  see  her  soul,  with  fluttering 
outstretched  wings,  sinking  down  to  hell,  as  a  hawk 
drops  out  of  sight  into  a  dark  cleft  of  the  mountains. 
And  then,  in  the  last  resort,  Fraser  struck  his  hand 
down  on  mine  to  clinch  his  defeat  of  me.  And  I, 
looking  upon  that  poor  Kate,  cried  out :  — 

u  God  forgive  you,  Fraser,  for  what  you  're  doing 
—  murderer  !  murderer !  " 

Scarcely  had  my  cry  died  away  than  I  knew  I 
had  borrowed  the  very  words  of  Wedderburn  to 
me.  A  cold,  like  ice,  came  upon  me.  This  re- 
versal of  the  past  in  the  present  was  too  ironic. 
I  heard  the  doctor  chuckling  drearily  in  Hades.  I 
suddenly  sprang  up  like  one  pursued,  and  got  away 
into  the  night,  leaving  Kate  and  Fraser  together 


i54  BYE-WAYS 

by  the  fire.  But  the  spectre  of  the  Manse  surely 
pursued  me.  I  heard  its  soft  but  heavy  footsteps 
coming  in  my  wake.  I  heard  its  old  laughter  in 
the  dark  behind  me ;  and  I  sickened  and  faltered, 
and  was  in  fear  beyond  all  human  fear  of  an 
enemy.  The  next  day  I  told  Fraser  he  must  leave 
the  Manse ;  I  would  build  him  a  shooting-lodge 
on  any  part  of  my  estate  that  he  preferred. 

11  No,"  he  said,  u  no  ;  I  have  grown  to  love  the 
old  place ;  I  never  feel  alone  there." 

I  looked  in  his  eyes,  searching  after  his  meaning. 

"  I  would  rather  pull  down  the  Manse,"  I  said. 

In  reply,  he  touched  with  his  forefinger  the 
lease  I  had  signed  with  him,  which  lay  on  his 
writing-table. 

"  You  cannot,  my  friend,"  he  said. 

I  cannot  do  anything  that  I  would.  I  am  driven 
on  a  dark  road  by  the  creature  with  the  whip  that 
is  surely  after  every  man  who  once  yields  to  his 
worst  desires. 

Just  after  this  I  received  a  visit  from  Mr.  Mac- 
kenzie, the  new  minister,  a  young  and  fervent,  but 
not  very  knowledgeable  man,  whose  zeal  was  red- 
hot,  but  incompetent,  and  who  would  have  died  for 
the  faith  he  could  never  properly  expound,  like 
many  young  ministers  of  our  church.  The  little 
man  was  in  a  twisting  turmoil  of  distress,  and  was 
moved,  so  he  said,  to  deal  very  plainly  with  me.  I 
bade  him  deal  on.  It  seemed  that  his  flock  was 
becoming  infected  with  atheism,  which  spread  like 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          155 

the  plague,  from  the  old  Manse.  The  young  chil- 
dren lisped  it  to  each  other  in  the  lanes ;  lovers 
talked  it  between  their  kisses;  youths  chattered 
perdition  at  the  idle  corner  by  the  church  wall. 
Even  the  old  began  to  look  askance  at  the  Bible 
that  had  been  their  only  book  of  age,  and  to  shiver 
wantonly  at  the  inevitable  approach  of  death. 
The  young  minister  cried  denunciation  upon 
Fraser,  like  a  vague-minded,  but  angry  Jonah  be- 
fore a  provincial  Nineveh. 

"  Turn  him  out,  Mr.  Ralston,  drive  him  forth," 
he  ejaculated.  "  What  is  his  rent  to  you  ?  What 
is  his  money  in  comparison  with  the  immortal 
souls  of  men  ?  Away  with  him,  away  with  him." 

I  mentioned  the  small  matter  of  the  lease. 
The  young  minister,  with  a  quivering  scarlet  face, 
replied  stammering :  — 

"  A  lease  !  But  —  but  — your  own  wife  —  she 
is  —  is  —  " 

u  I  do  not  discuss  her,"  I  said  sternly. 

"  Well ;  they  are  deserting  the  services.  You 
see  that  yourself.  They  will  not  come  to  hear  me 
preach.  They  will  not  listen  to  me." 

The  man  was  tasting  bitterness.  He  was 
almost  crying.  I  was  terribly  sorry  for  him.  Yet, 
all  I  could  do  was  to  think  of  the  spectre  at  the 
Manse  and  answer:  — 

"  I  can  do  nothing." 

His  words  were  true.  Carlounie's  soul  was 
being  devoured  as  by  a  plague.  A  colony  of  un- 


156  BYF-WAYS 

believers  was  springing  up  in  the  midst  of  the 
beautiful  woods  and  the  mountains.  Soon  the  evil 
fame  of  the  place  began  to  spread  abroad,  and 
men,  in  distant  parts  of  Scotland,  to  speak  of 
mad  Carlounie.  The  matter  weighed  intolerably 
upon  me,  and  at  last  became  a  fixed  idea.  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else  but  this  devil's  home  in  the 
hills,  this  haunted  and  harassed  centre  of  doom 
and  darkness  which  was  my  possession  and  in 
which  I  lived.  I  fell  into  silence.  I  ceased  to 
stir  abroad  beyond  my  own  land.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  Carlounie  should  keep  strict  quarantine, 
should  be  isolated,  and  that  each  person  who  went 
over  its  borders  carried  a  strange  infection  and  was 
guilty  of  murder.  I  forbade  Kate  to  drive  beyond 
my  estates. 

"  I  never  wish  to,"  she  said. 

And  I  knew  that  where  Fraser  was  she  was 
happy.  He  had  her  soul  fast  by  this  ;  or,  it  would 
be  truer  to  say,  the  spectre  of  the  Manse  had  both 
him  and  her.  And  he  aged  apace  and  bore  on  his 
countenance  the  stamp  of  evil.  And  I  brooded 
and  brooded  upon  the  whole  matter.  But,  from 
whatever  point  I  started,  I  came  back  to  the  Manse 
and  to  the  spectre  dwelling  in  it  with  Hugh  Fraser. 
I  had  given  death  to  Doctor  Wedderburn,  in  re- 
turn for  the  life  so  miraculously  given  to  me,  and 
now  his  spirit,  retained  in  its  ancient  abiding-place, 
spread  death  about  it  in  its  turn.  This  was,  and 
is,  my  conviction.  The  influence  of  the  departed 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          157 

clings  to  roof,  to  walls,  to  floors,  leans  or,  the  ac- 
customed window-seat,  trembles  by  the  bed-head, 
sits  by  the  hearthstone,  stands  invisible  in  the  pas- 
sage way.  To  kill  it  one  must  destroy  its  home.  It 
was  my  duty  to  kill  it,  therefore  it  was  my  duty  to 
destroy  the  Manse.  This  thought  at  length  took 
complete  possession  of  me,  and,  following  it,  I 
strove  in  every  imaginable  way  to  oust  Fraser  from 
the  house  among  the  sycamores.  But  he  would 
not  go.  He  loved  the  place,  he  said.  He  stood 
by  his  lease  and  I  was  powerless. 

Oh,  God,  I  have,  surely  I  have,  my  excuse  for 
what  I  have  done  !  I  meant  to  be  a  saviour,  not  a 
destroyer  !  I  would  have  restored  Fraser  and  my 
poor  Kate  to  their  freedom  of  heart.  That  was 
what  I  meant.  Ay,  but  the  grey  traveller  fought 
against  me.  Shut  up  here  by  night  in  my  house, 
on  the  verge  of — that  which  I  cannot,  dare  not 
speak  of,  I  declare  that  I  am  guiltless.  Let  him 
bear  the  burden,  him  alone  !  In  these  last  mo- 
ments, before  my  deed  is  known,  I  write  the  truth 
that  men  may  exonerate  me.  This  is  the  truth. 

Overwhelmed  with  this  idea  that  Carlounie 
must  be  rescued,  that  Hugh  Fraser  and  Kate  must 
be  rescued  from  this  damnation  that  was  preying 
upon  them,  I  determined,  secretly,  on  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Manse,  in  which  the  spectre  of  the 
doctor  stayed  to  work  such  evil.  But,  to  do  this, 
I  must  first  make  sure  that  Hugh  Fraser  was  at 
a  distance,  and  that  his  small  household  —  he. only 


158  BYE-WAYS 

kept  two  servants,  hired  from  the  village  —  were 
away  from  the  haunted  dwelling.  I,  therefore, 
suggested  to  Fraser  that  he  should  come  and  spend 
a  week  with  me,  and  give  his  maids  a  holiday. 
After  a  little  demur,  and  drawn,  I  see  now,  by  his 
hidden  passion  for  Kate,  he  accepted  my  invita- 
tion. He  dismissed  the  maids  to  their  homes  for 
a  week,  and  moved  over  to  us.  When  the  min- 
ister knew  of  it,  he,  no  doubt,  fully  included  me 
in  his  prayers  for  the  damnation  of  those  who 
worked  evil  among  his  flock.  Will  he  ever  read 
these  pages,  I  wonder?  Kate  was  now  an  avowed 
atheist,  and  she  and  Fraser  were  continually  to- 
gether, glorying  in  their  complete  freedom  from 
old  prejudices,  and  their  new  outlook  upon  life. 
They  had,  I  heard  them  say,  broken  through  the 
ties  that  bound  poor,  terrified  Christians ;  and, 
when  they  said  this,  they  smiled,  the  one  upon  the 
other.  I  did  not  then  know  why.  Meanwhile,  I 
was  preparing  for  my  deed  of  redemption,  as  I 
called  it,  and  meant  it  to  be.  I  was  resolved  to  go 
out  by  night  to  the  empty  Manse,  and  secretly  to 
set  it  in  flames.  It  stood  alone.  The  country 
people  slept  sound  at  night.  I  calculated  that  if  I 
chose  midnight  for  my  act  none  would  see  the 
flames,  and,  ere  the  peasants  woke  at  dawn,  the 
Manse  and  the  spectre  within  it  would  be  de- 
stroyed for  ever.  Such  was  my  belief —  such  the 
spirit  in  which  I  prepared  myself  for  this  strange 
work. 


A  TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          159 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GREY  TRAVELLER 

I  WRITE  these  last  words  after  the  dead  of  night, 
towards  the  coming  of  the  dawn.  Ere  the  light  is 
grey  in  the  sky  I  shall  be  away  to  the  burn  to  meet 
him,  the  grey  traveller.  He  is  there  waiting  for  me. 
He  has  come  back.  I  go  to  meet  him,  and  I  shall 
never  return.  Carlounie  will  know  my  face  no 
more.  All  is  done  as  he  ordained.  My  words 
have  been  as  deeds,  have  marched  on  inevitably  to 
actual  deeds.  Long  ago  he  said  that  sometimes, 
even  as  we  can  never  go  back  from  things  that  we 
have  done,  we  can  never  go  back  from  things  that 
we  have  said.  So,  indeed,  it  is. 

According  to  my  fixed  intention,  I  determined 
on  a  night  for  the  destruction  of  the  Manse.  The 
house  was  old  and  would  burn  like  tinder.  I 
should  break  into  it  through  the  window  of  the 
study,  which  was  never  shuttered.  I  should  set 
fire  to  the  interior  at  several  points,  and  escape  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night.  By  dawn  the  accursed 
place  would  be  a  ruin,  and  then  —  then  I  looked 
for  a  new  era.  Fool !  Fool !  I  looked  to  see 
the  burden  of  the  vile  influence  of  the  spectre  lifted 
from  the  soul  of  Fraser,  and  so  from  the  soul  of 
Kate,  which  was  infected  by  him.  I  looked  to 
see  my  people  sane  and  satisfied  as  of  old,  Carlounie 


160  BYE-WAYS 

no  more  a  plague-spot  in  the  land,  that  poor  and 
zealous  man,  the  minister,  calm  and  at  rest  with 
his  little  faithful  flock  once  more.  All  this  I 
looked  for  confidently.  And  so,  when  the  black 
and  starless  night  of  my  deed  came,  I  was  happy  and 
serene.  That  night  Kate  pleaded  a  headache,  and 
went  to  bed  very  early,  before  nine.  She  begged 
me  not  to  come  to  her  room  to  bid  her  good- 
night, as  she  wanted  perfect  quiet  and  sleep.  All 
unsuspecting,  I  agreed  to  her  request.  Soon  after 
she  had  gone,  Fraser,  who  had  seemed  heavy  with 
unusual  fatigue  all  through  the  evening,  also  went 
off  to  bed,  and  I  was  left  alone.  But  it  was  not 
yet  time  for  me  to  start  on  my  errand  of  the  dark- 
ness. The  burning  Manse  would  surely  attract 
attention  before  midnight.  People  might  be  out 
and  about  in  the  village.  A  belated  peasant  might 
be  on  his  way  home  by  the  lane  that  skirted  the 
privet  hedge.  I  must  wait  till  all  were  sleeping. 
The  time  seemed  very  long.  Once  I  fancied  I 
heard  a  movement  in  the  house  —  again  I  dreamed 
that  soft  and  hurried  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  out- 
side broke  on  the  silence.  But  I  said  to  myself  that 
I  was  nervous,  highly  strung  because  of  my  strange 
project,  that  my  imagination  tricked  me.  At  last 
the  hour  came.  Without  going  upstairs  I  drew  on 
my  thickest  overcoat,  took  my  hat  and  a  heavy 
stick,  opened  the  hall  door,  and  passed  out  into 
the  night.  It  was  still  and  very  cold,  and  the  voice 
of  the  burn  came  loudly  to  my  ears.  Treading 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          161 

quietly,  I  made  my  way  into  the  road,  and  set 
forth  along  it  in  the  direction  of  the  Manse.  The 
ground  was  hard,  and  scarcely  had  I  gone  a  few 
yards  before  I  thought  that  some  one  was  furtively 
following  me.  I  stopped  rather  uneasily,  and  lis- 
tened, but  heard  nothing.  I  went  on,  and  again 
seemed  aware  of  distant  footsteps  treading  gently 
behind  me.  The  sound  made  me  suppose  that 
some  one  of  my  household  must  be  after  me,  moved 
by  curiosity  as  to  the  reason  of  my  present  pilgrim- 
age ;  but  I  was  not  minded  to  be  watched,  so  I 
turned  sharply,  yet  very  softly,  around  and  faced 
the  way  I  had  come.  I  encountered  no  one,  nor 
did  I  any  longer  catch  the  patter  of  feet.  So, 
reckoning  that  my  nerves  must  be  playing  with  me, 
I  pursued  my  way.  But  the  whole  of  the  distance 
between  my  dwelling  and  the  Manse  I  seemed 
vaguely  to  hear  a  noise  of  one  treading  behind  me. 
And,  although  I  said  to  myself  that  there  was 
nobody  out  beside  myself,  I  was  filled  with  the  stir 
of  a  shifting  uneasiness.  I  entered  the  lonely  and 
narrow  lane  that  led  beside  the  Manse,  and  pres- 
ently arrived  in  front  of  the  house ;  when,  what 
was  my  astonishment  to  perceive  a  light  gleaming 
in  the  study  window.  My  hand  was  on  the  gate 
when  it  went  out,  and  all  the  front  of  the  house 
was  black  and  eyeless.  For  so  brief  a  moment 
had  I  seen  the  light  that  I  was  moved  to  think  that 
it,  too,  existed,  like  the  sound  of  steps,  only  in  my 
excited  brain.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not  go  up  at 


1 62  BYE- WAYS 

once  to  the  house,  but  paced  the  lane  for  a  full  half- 
hour,  always  —  so  it  seemed  to  me  —  tracked  by 
some  one.  But,  since  I  kept  turning  about,  and  the 
footfalls  were  always  at  my  back,  I  grew  certain 
that  they  were  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  fan- 
tasy on  my  part.  It  must  have  been  well  after 
twelve  when  I  summoned  courage  to  enter  the 
garden  and  to  approach  the  Manse.  The  steps,  I 
thought,  followed  me  to  the  gate  and  then  paused, 
as  if  a  sentinel  was  posted  there  to  keep  watch. 
Arrived  at  the  stone  step  which  preceded  the  hall 
door,  I,  too,  paused  in  my  turn  and  listened.  Did 
the  spectre  that  inhabited  this  abode  know  of  my 
coming,  of  my  purpose  ?  Was  it  crouching  within, 
like  some  frantic  shadow,  fearful  of  its  impending 
fate  ?  Or  was  it,  perhaps,  preparing  to  attack,  to 
repel  me  ?  Strangely,  I  had  now  no  fear  of  it,  or 
of  anything.  I  was  calm.  I  felt  that  my  deed 
was  one  of  rescue,  even  though,  by  performing  it, 
I  wrought  destruction.  I  moved  to  the  study 
window,  and  was  about  to  smash  in  the  glass  with 
my  heavy  stick  when  a  mad  idea  came  to  me  to 
try  the  hall  door.  I  put  my  hand  upon  it  and 
found  it  not  locked.  This  opening  of  the  door 
sent  a  shiver  through  me,  and  a  ghastly  sense  of 
the  occupation  of  this  deserted  abode.  I  was  filled 
again  with  an  acute  consciousness  of  the  indwelling 
spectre,  whom,  in  truth,  I  came  to  murder.  But,  I 
reasoned,  this  door  has  been  left  unbarred  by  the 
carelessness  of  Eraser's  servants,  that  is  all. 


A. TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          163 

I  stood  on  the  lintel,  struck  a  match  and  set  it 
to  a  candle  end  which  I  drew  from  my  coat  pocket. 
The  flame  burned  up,  showing  the  narrow  pas- 
sage, the  umbrella  stand,  the  doors  on  either  side. 
I  entered  the  study  softly,  looking  swiftly  on  all 
sides  of  me  as  I  did  so.  Did  I  expect  a  vision  of 
Doctor  Wedderburn  lounging  at  the  table,  his 
fingers  thrust  into  a  Bible  ?  I  scarcely  know ; 
but  I  saw  nothing  except  the  grimly  standing  furni- 
ture, the  lamp  on  the  table,  the  vacant  chairs,  the 
books  in  their  shelves.  I  listened.  There  was  no 
rustle  of  the  spectre  that  I  came  to  kill.  Did  it 
watch  me  ?  Did  it  see  me  there  ?  I  set  fire  to 
the  room,  passed  quickly  to  the  chamber  on  the 
other  side  of  the  passage,  from  thence  to  the 
kitchen  and  the  dining-parlour,  leaving  a  track  of 
dwarf  flames  behind  me.  The  means  of  destruc- 
tion I  had  prepared  and  carried  with  me.  They 
availed.  When  I  once  more  reached  the  garden,  the 
ground  floor  of  the  Manse  was  in  a  blaze.  But  now 
came  the  incredible  event  which  I  must  chronicle 
before  I  go  down  to  the  burn  for  the  last  time. 

Having  gained  the  garden,  I  waited  there  in  the 
darkness  to  watch  my  work  progress.  I  saw  the 
light  within  the  Manse,  at  first  a  twinkle,  grow 
to  a  glare.  I  heard  the  faint  crackle  of  the 
burning  rooms  increase  to  a  soft  and  continuous 
roar.  And,  as  I  watched  and  listened,  a  mighty 
sense  of  relief  ran  through  me.  Thus  did  I  burn 
up  my  past !  thus  did  I  sacrifice  grandly  and 


i64  BYE-WAYS 

gladly  the  ill  spirit  my  wild  desires  had  evoked  ! 
Thus  —  thus  !  All  the  base  of  the  Manse  was 
red-hot,  when,  on  a  sudden,  I  heard  a  great  shout 
that  seemed  to  come  from  the  sky.  Light  sprang 
in  an  upper  window.  There  followed  a  sound  like 
the  smash  of  glass,  and  I  saw  two  arms  shoot  out, 
the  top  part  of  a  figure  and  a  face  framed  in  the 
glare.  I  deemed  it  the  vision  of  the  poor  spectre 
that  I  destroyed.  I  looked  upon  it  and  fancied 
I  could  detect  the  tortured  lineaments  of  the 
doctor,  his  accustomed  gestures  distorted  by  fear 
and  fury.  But  then  I  seemed  to  see  behind  him 
another  figure,  struggling,  and  to  hear  the  failing 
scream  of  a  woman.  But  the  flames  from  below 
leaped  to  the  roof.  The  floors  fell  in  with  an 
uproar.  The  figure,  or  figures,  disappeared. 

Trembling  I  turned  to  go,  my  mind  shuddering 
at  the  thought  of  the  apparition  I  had  seen.  I 
got  into  the  lane  and  hastened  towards  home. 
Soon  the  burning  Manse  was  out  of  sight,  and  I 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  intense  darkness. 

Now,  as  I  went  along,  a  terrible  and  very  pecu- 
liar sensation  came  upon  me.  I  heard  no  foot- 
steps ;  all  was  silence.  Yet  I  seemed  to  be  aware 
that  I  was  closely  companioned,  that  at  my  very 
side  something  —  I  knew  not  what  —  walked, 
keeping  pace  with  me.  And  so  close  did  I  believe 
this  thing  to  be,  that  at  moments  I  even  felt  it 
pressing  against  me  like  a  slim  figure  in  the  night. 
Once,  when  it  thus  nestled  to  me,  as  if  in  affection, 


A   TRIBUTE   OF   SOULS          165 

I  could  not  refrain  from  crying  out  aloud.  I 
stretched  forth  my  arms  to  grasp  this  surely  amor- 
ous horror  of  the  darkness,  but  found  nothing,  and 
pursued  my  road  in  a  sweat  of  apprehension.  And 
still,  the  thing  was  certainly  with  me,  and  seemed, 
I  thought,  to  praise  me  as  I  walked,  as  the  good 
man  is  praised  on  his  journey.  My  great  horror 
was  that  this  creature  that  I  could  not  see,  could 
not  hear,  could  not  feel,  and  yet  was  so  sharply 
conscious  of,  was  well  disposed  towards  me.  My 
heart  craved  its  hatred  —  but  it  loved  me  I  knew. 
My  soul  demanded  its  curses.  I  almost  heard  it 
bless  me  as  I  moved.  My  knees  knocked  together, 
my  limbs  were  turned  to  wax,  as  it  was  borne  in 
upon  me  that  I  had  surely  done  this  terror  that 
walked  in  darkness  a  service  of  some  kind.  To  be 
pursued  in  fury  by  one  of  the  dreadful  beings 
that  dwell  in  the  borderland  beyond  our  sight  is 
sad  and  dreary  ;  but  to  be  followed  thus  by  one 
as  by  a  dog,  to  be  fawned  upon  and  caressed  — 
this  is  appalling.  I  longed  to  shriek  aloud.  I 
broke  into  a  run,  and,  like  one  demented,  gained 
the  gate  of  Carlounie  ;  but  always  the  thing  was 
with  me  —  full  of  joy  and  laudation.  At  the  house 
door  I  paused,  facing  round.  I  was  moved  to 
address  this  thing  I  could  not  see. 

"  Who  is  it  that  walks  with  me  ?  "  I  cried,  and 
my  voice  was  high  and  strained. 

A  voice  I  knew,  young,  clear,  level,  a  little 
formal,  answered  out  of  the  darkness  :  — 


1 66  BYE-WAYS 

"  It  is  I." 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  grey  traveller  whom  I 
had  seen  long  ago  by  the  burnside.  I  leaned  back 
against  the  door  and  my  shoulders  shook  against  it. 

u  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  thank  you." 

"  What,  then,  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  You  have  brought  the  tribute  money." 

I  did  not  understand,  and  I  answered  :  — 

"  No.  One  soul  I  may  have  destroyed,  but  two 
I  have  saved  to-night.  For  I  have  slain  the  spectre 
that  preyed  upon  them  and  I  have  set  them  free 
from  bondage." 

The  voice  answered  :  — 

"  Go  into  the  house  and  see" 

Then  again  I  was  filled  with  apprehension.  I 
turned  to  go  in  at  my  door,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I 
heard  footsteps  treading  in  the  direction  of  the 
burn,  and  a  fading  voice  which  cried,  like  an 
echo :  — 

"  And  then  come  to  me." 

And,  as  the  voice  died,  I  heard  the  rush  of 
sheep  in  the  night. 

Filled  with  nameless  fear  and  a  cold  appre- 
hension, I  entered  the  house,  and,  led  by  some 
cruel  instinct,  made  my  way  to  Kate's  room. 
The  lamp  she  always  had  at  night  burned  dimly 
on  the  dressing-table  and  cast  a  grave  radiance 
upon  an  empty  bed. 


A   TRIBUTE    OF   SOULS          167 

What  could  this  mean  ? 

I  stole  to  the  room  of  Fraser,  bearing  the  lamp 
with  me.  His  chamber  was  also  untenanted ; 
but,  on  the  quilt  of  the  bed,  lay  a  piece  of  paper 
written  over.  I  took  it  up  and  read  —  with  the 
sound  of  the  burn  in  my  ears :  — 

"  You  stole  her  from  me.  I  take  back  my  own.  To- 
night we  stay  at  the  old  Manse.  To-morrow  we  shall 
be  far  away.  HUGH  FRASER." 

The  paper  dropped  from  my  hand  upon  the 
quilt.  A  woman's  scream  rang  in  my  ears  above 
the  roar  of  flames.  I  understood. 

The  tribute  money  has  been  paid. 
I  go  down  to  the  burn.     The  grey  traveller  is 
waiting  there  for  me. 

ROBERT  HICHENS. 
FREDERIC  HAMILTON. 


AN    ECHO    IN    EGYPT 


AN    ECHO    IN    EGYPT 

THAT  lustrous  land  of  weary  music  and  wild  danc- 
ing, of  reverend  tombs  and  pert  Arabs,  that  Egypt 
of  plagues  and  tourists,  to  whose  sandy  bosom 
Society  flocks,  affects  her  visitors  in  many  different 
ways.  Bellairs  went  to  her  under  the  fixed  im- 
pression that  he  was  a  cynic,  and  found  that  he 
was  a  romanticist.  Very  acute  in  mind,  he  had 
long  flattered  himself  on  being  unimpressionable ; 
and  he  was  much  inclined  to  think  that  to  be  in- 
sensitive was  to  be  strong  with  the  best  kind  of 
strength.  He  loved  to  lay  stress  on  all  that  was 
devil-may-care  in  his  character,  and  to  put  aside  all 
that  was  prone  to  cling,  or  weep,  or  wonder,  or 
pray,  and  he  fancied  that  if  he  cultivated  one  side 
of  his  mind  assiduously  he  could  eliminate  the  other 
sides.  In  England,  in  London,  the  process  had 
seemed  to  be  successful.  But  Egypt  gave  to  him 
illusions  with  both  hands,  and,  against  his  will,  he 
had  to  accept  them.  Protests  were  unavailing,  and 
soon  he  ceased  to  protest,  and  told  himself  the 
horrid  fact  that  he  was  a  sentimentalist,  perhaps 
even  a  poet.  Good  heavens  !  a  Bellairs  —  a  poet ! 
His  soldier  ancestors  seemed  forming  a  square  and 
fixing  bayonets  to  resist  the  charging  notion.  And 
yet  —  and  yet  — 


172  BYE-WAYS 

Instead  of  playing  pool  after  dinner  at  night, 
Bellairs  found  himself  wandering,  like  Haroun  Al 
Raschid,  through  the  narrow  ways  of  Cairo,  mixing 
with  the  natives,  studying  their  loves,  and  drinking 
their  coffee.  There  were  moments,  retrograde  mo- 
ments, when  he  even  wished  to  wear  their  dress, 
to  drape  his  long-limbed  British  form  in  a  flowing 
blue  robe,  and  wrap  his  dark  head  in  a  bulging 
white  turban.  He  resisted  this  devil  of  an  idea ; 
but  the  fact  that  it  had  ever  come  to  him  troubled 
him.  And,  partly  to  regain  his  manhood,  his  hard 
scepticism,  his  contempt  of  outside,  delicate  in- 
fluences, he  went  up  the  Nile  —  and  succumbed 
utterly  to  fantasy  and  to  old  romance.  "  I  am  no 
longer  Jack  Bellairs,"  he  told  himself  one  day,  as 
the  steamer  on  which  he  travelled  neared  Luxor 
on  its  way  down  the  river  from  the  First  Cataract 
—  "I  am  somebody  else  ;  some  one  who  is  touched 
by  a  sunset,  and  responsive  to  a  gleam  of  rose  on 
the  Libyan  Mountains,  some  one  who  dreams  at 
night  when  the  pipes  wail  under  the  palm-trees, 
some  one  who  feels  that  the  great  river  has  life,  and 
that  the  desert  owns  a  wistful  soul,  and  has  a  sweet 
armour  with  silence.  Good-bye,  Jack  Bellairs ! 
Go  home  to  England  —  I  stay  here." 

And  that  evening  he  left  the  steamer,  and  took 
a  room  for  a  month  at  the  Luxor  Hotel.  And 
that  evening  he  cast  the  skin  of  his  former 

O 

self,  and  emerged,  with  fluttering  wings,  from  the 
chrysalis  of  his  identity.     He  was  a  bachelor,  aged 


AN   ECHO   IN   EGYPT  173 

twenty-eight,  and  he  was  travelling  alone ;  so  there 
was  no  critical  eye  to  mark  the  change  in  him,  no 
chattering  tongue  to  express  surprise  at  his  pleasant 
abandonment  to  the  follies  which  make  up  the  lives 
of  sensitive  artists  and  refined  sensualists  who  can 
differentiate  between  the  promenade  of  the  "  Em- 
pire," and  the  garden  of  love.  As  he  stepped  out 
into  the  Arab-haunted  village  that  night,  after 
dinner,  Bellairs  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  For  a 
month  he  would  let  himself  go.  Where  to  ?  He 
bent  his  steps  towards  the  river,  the  Nile  that  is  the 
pulsing  blood  in  the  veins  of  Egypt.  Moored  in 
the  shadow  of  its  brown  banks  lay  a  string  of 
bright-eyed  dahabeeyahs.  From  more  than  one  of 
them  came  music.  Bellairs,  his  cigarette  his  only 
companion,  strolled  slowly  along  listening  idly  in  a 
pleasant  dream.  A  woman's  voice  sang,  asking 
"  Ninon  "  what  was  her  scheme  of  life.  A  man 
beat  out  his  soul  at  the  feet  of  "  Medje."  And; 
upon  the  deck  of  the  last  dahabeeyah,  a  woman 
played  a  fantastic  mazurka.  Bellairs  was  fond  of 
music,  and  her  performance  was  so  clever,  so  full 
of  nuances,  understanding,  wild  passion,  that  he 
stood  still  to  remark  it  more  closely. 

"  She  has  known  many  things,  good  and  evil," 
he  thought,  as  his  mind  noted  the  intellect  that 
spoke  in  the  changes  of  time,  the  regret  and  the 
gaiety  that  the  touch  demonstrated  so  surely  and 
easily,  as  the  mood  of  the  composition  changed. 
The  music  ceased. 


174  BYE-WAYS 

"  Betty,"  a  woman's  voice  said,  in  English,  but 
with  a  slight  French  accent,  "  I  want  to  see  the  stars. 
This  awning  hides  them.  Come  for  a  little  walk." 

"  Yes ;  I  want  to  see  the  stars  too,  and  the 
awning  does  hide  them,"  a  girl's  voice  answered. 
"  Do  let  us  take  a  little  walk." 

Bellairs  smiled,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "  The 
first  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  musician,  and  the 
second  voice  seems  to  be  its  echo."  He  was  still 
standing  on  the  bank  when  the  two  women  stepped 
upon  the  gangway  to  the  shore  and  climbed  to  the 
narrow  path. 

As  they  passed  him  by  they  glanced  at  him 
rather  curiously.  One  was  a  woman  of  about 
thirty,  dark,  with  a  pale,  strong-featured  face. 
The  other  was  a  fair,  aristocratic-looking  girl,  not 
more  than  seventeen. 

"  She  is  the  echo,"  Bellairs  thought.  "  Rather 
a  sweet  one."  Then,  at  a  distance,  he  followed 
them,  and  presently  found  them  sitting  together 
in  the  garden  of  the  Hotel.  He  sat  down  not  far 
off.  A  man,  whom  he  knew  slightly,  spoke  to 
them,  and  afterwards  crossed  to  him. 

u  That  lady  plays  very  cleverly,"  Bellairs  said. 

"  Mademoiselle  Leroux,  you  mean  —  yes.  You 
know  her  ? " 

u  Not  at  all.  I  only  heard  her  from  the  river 
bank." 

a  She  is  travelling  with  Lord  Braydon.  She  is 
a  great  friend  of  Lady  Betty  Lambe,  his  daughter." 


AN   ECHO   IN   EGYPT  175 

«  That  pretty  girl  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Shall  I  introduce  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  delighted." 

A  moment  later  Bellairs  was  sitting  with  the 
two  ladies  and  talking  of  Egypt.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  they  were  the  first  nurses  to  dandle  his 
new  baby-nature,  this  nature  which  Egypt  had 
given  to  him,  and  which  only  to-night  he  had 
definitely  accepted.  Perhaps  this  fact  quickly 
cemented  their  acquaintance.  At  any  rate,  a  dis- 
tinct friendship  began  to  walk  in  their  conversa- 
tion, and  Bellairs  found  himself  listening  to  Mdlle. 
Leroux,  and  looking  at  Lady  Betty,  with  a  great 
deal  of  interest  and  of  admiration.  Presently  the 
former  said  :  — 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  introduced  to  us 
to-night." 

Bellairs  was  surprised. 

"  When  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  When  we  passed  you  just  now  on  the  bank 
of  the  Nile." 

"  I  knew  we  should  too,"  said  Lady  Betty. 

"  You  must  be  very  intuitive,"  said  Bellairs. 

"Women  generally  are,"  remarked  Mdlle. 
Leroux. 

"  Yes.  Do  your  intuitions  tell  you  whether  our 
acquaintance  will  be  long  and  agreeable?" 

"  Perhaps  —  but  I  never  prophesy." 

"  Why  ?  " 

11  Because  I  am  always  right." 


176  BYE-WAYS 

"  Is  that  a  valid  reason  for  abstention  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.     For  in  this  world  those  who  look 

forward  generally  see  darkness." 

"  I  cannot  achieve  a  proper  pessimism  in  Upper 

Egypt/'  Bellairs  replied. 

A  week  later,  Bellairs  felt  quite  certain  that 
there  had  never  been  a  period  in  his  life  when  he 
had  not  known  and  talked  with  Mdlle.  Leroux  and 
Lady  Betty  Lambe.  Lord  and  Lady  Braydon 
asked  him  to  lunch  on  the  dahabeeyah  almost  every 
day,  and  he  often  strolled  down  to  tea  without 
invitation.  Then,  in  the  afternoon,  there  were 
donkey  expeditions  to  Karnak,  or  across  the  river 
to  the  tombs  of  the  kings,  to  the  desert  villa  of 
Monsieur  Naville,  to  ancient  Thebes,  to  the  two 
Colossi.  Lord  Braydon  was  consumptive  and 
was  spending  the  winter  and  spring  in  Egypt. 
Lady  Braydon  seldom  left  his  side,  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  Bellairs  and  his  two  acquaintances  of 
the  garden  were  often  alone  together.  Bellairs 
became  deeply  interested  in  them,  and  for  a  rather 
peculiar  reason.  He  was  fascinated  by  the  extra- 
ordinary sympathy  that  existed  between  the  two 
women  —  if  Lady  Betty  could  be  called  a  woman 
yet.  Mdlle.  Leroux  had  obtained  so  strong  an 
influence  over  the  girl  that  she  seemed  to  have 
grafted  not  only  her  mind,  but  her  heart,  her  ap- 
paratus of  emotions  and  of  affections,  on  to  Lady 
Betty's.  What  the  former  silently  thought,  the 


AN    ECHO   IN   EGYPT  177 

latter  silently  thought  too,  and  when  the  silence 
died  in  expression,  they  frequently  spoke  almost 
the  same  sentence  simultaneously.  Sometimes 
Mdlle.  Leroux  would  express  some  feeling  with 
vehemence  to  Bellairs  when  Lady  Betty  was  out 
of  hearing,  and  an  hour  or  two  afterwards,  with 
only  a  slightly  fainter  vehemence,  Lady  Betty 
would  express  the  same  feeling.  Indeed,  these  two 
women  seemed  to  have  only  one  heart,  one  soul, 
between  them,  the  heart  and  soul  that  had  orig- 
inally been  the  sole  property  of  the  elder  one. 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  said  Bellairs  one  day 
to  Mdlle.  Leroux. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"  You  give  away  things  that  most  of  us  have 
only  the  power  to  keep." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  will  tell  you." 

Clarice  Leroux  was  tremendously  impulsive, 
and  she  had  taken  an  immediate  and  strong  liking 
to  Bellairs.  In  this  Lady  Betty,  as  usual,  coin- 
cided. But  when  Clarice's  liking  passed  through 
self-revelations,  confidences,  towards  a  stronger 
feeling,  it  was  rather  strange  to  find  Lady  Betty 
still  treading  in  her  footsteps,  still  ever  succeeding 
her  in  her  attitudes  of  mind  and  of  heart.  Yet  the 
inevitable  double  flirtation,  apparently  expected 
and  desired  by  the  two  women,  was  strangely 
gilded  by  novelty ;  and,  at  first,  Bellairs  played  as 
happily  with  these  two  dual  natures  as  a  child  plays 
u 


178  BYE-WAYS 

with  two  doll  representatives  of  Tweedledum  and 
Tweedledee.  For,  at  first,  he  possessed  the  child's 
power  of  detachment,  and  felt  that  he  could  at  any 
moment  discard  dolls  for  soldiers,  or  a  Noah's 
Ark,  and  still  keep  happiness  in  his  lap.  But  most 
things  have  an  inherent  tendency  to  become  com- 
plicated if  they  are  let  alone  and  allowed  to  develop 
free  from  definite  guidance,  and  presently  Bellairs 
became  conscious  of  advancing  complications. 
His  intellectual  appreciation  of  a  new  situation 
began  to  degenerate  into  a  more  emotional  con- 
dition, which  disturbed  and  irritated  him.  It 
seemed  that  he  was  peering  through  the  bars  of  the 
gate  that  guards  the  garden  of  passion.  Which 
of  the  two  women  did  he  see  in  the  garden  ? 

He  told  himself  that,  having  regard  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case,  he  ought  to  see  both  of 
them.  Unfortunately,  a  vision  of  that  kind  never 
has  been,  and  never  will  be,  seen  by  a  man.  The 
temple  in  which  the  idol  sits  always  makes  a  differ- 
ence in  the  nature  of  our  worship  of  the  idol. 
Bellairs  was  forced  to  recognise  this  fact.  And 
the  temple  in  which  sat  the  idol  of  Lady  Betty's 
nature  attracted  him  more  than  the  temple  in  which 
sat  the  idol  of  Mdlle.  Leroux's  nature.  He  came 
to  this  conclusion  one  afternoon  at  Karnak.  They 
three  were  hidden  away  in  a  stone  nook  of  this 
great  stone  forest,  enshrined  from  the  gaze  of  tour- 
ists by  mighty  rugged  pillars,  walled  in  by  huge 
blocks  of  antique  masonry  that  threw  cold  shadows 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  179 

whence  the  lizards  stole  to  seek  the  sun.  The  blue 
sky  was  broken  to  their  gaze  by  a  narrow  section 
of  what  had  been,  doubtless,  once  a  wide-spread 
roof.  A  silence  of  endless  ages  hung  around  them 
in  this  haven  fashioned  by  dead  men  and  living 
Time. 

Mdlle.  Leroux  had  been  boiling  a  kettle;  and 
they  sipped  tea,  and,  at  first,  did  not  talk.  But 
tea  unlooses  the  bonds  of  speech.  After  their 
second  cups  they  felt  communicative. 

"One  week  gone  out  of  my  four,"  Bellairs 
said,  "  and  each  will  seem  shorter-lived  than  its 
forerunner." 

"  You  go  in  three  weeks  from  now  ? "  said 
Mdlle.  Leroux,  with  an  uneven  intonation  that  be- 
tokened a  sudden  awakening  to  the  finality  of  things. 

"Yes;  at  the  end  of  January." 

"  And  we  are  here  until  nearly  the  end  of  March." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Betty ;  "  it  will  seem  a  very 
long  time.  February  will  be  eternal." 

"  It  is  the  shortest  month  in  the  year,"  Bellairs 
remarked. 

Mdlle.  Leroux  looked  at  him  sarcastically. 

41  You  English  are  so  prosaic,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Any  Frenchman  would  have  understood." 

"  What  ?  " 

41  That  we  were  paying  you  a  compliment." 

"  Perhaps  I  did  understand  it,  and  preferred  not 
to  show  my  comprehension ;  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  modesty ! " 


180  BYE-WAYS 

"  There  is  —  such  a  thing  as  false  modesty  !  " 

"  Exactly,"  remarked  Lady  Betty. 

"I  will  accept  your  compliment  gladly,"  said 
Bellairs,  looking  at  Lady  Betty. 

"  Mine  ?  "  asked  Clarice  Leroux. 

"  Yes,"  Bellairs  replied. 

The  consciousness  that  he  cared  very  much 
more  for  such  a  pretty  meaning  in  Lady  Betty 
than  in  Clarice  Leroux  led  him  then,  for  the  first 
time,  to  that  Garden  Gate.  He  looked  at  Lady 
Betty  again  with  a  new  feeling.  She  returned  his 
gaze  quietly.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  to  those  of 
Clarice.  Hers  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  curi- 
ous violence.  He  had  a  momentary  sensation, 
literally  for  the  first  time,  that  these  two  women 
after  all,  had  not  one  soul,  one  heart,  between 
them.  They  did  not  feel  quite  simultaneously. 
Lady  Betty  was  always  a  step  behind  Clarice. 
Yes,  that  was  the  difference  between  them.  How- 
ever quickly  the  echo  follows  the  voice  that  sum- 
mons it,  yet  it  must  always  follow.  Would  Lady 
Betty  never  cease  to  follow  ?  Bellairs  found  him- 
self wondering  eagerly,  for  that  afternoon  a  strange 
certainty  came  to  him.  He  knew,  in  a  flash,  that 
Clarice,  if  she  did  not  already  love  him,  was  on 
the  verge  of  loving  him.  He  knew  now  that  he 
loved  Lady  Betty.  But  she  did  n't  love  him  yet, 
was  not  even  quite  close  to  loving  him.  Had  she 
been  in  Egypt  alone,  divorced  from  Clarice,  Bel- 
lairs believed  that  he  would  not  have  attracted  her. 


AN   ECHO    IN    EGYPT  181 

He  attracted  her  through  Clarice,  because  he 
attracted  Clarice.  Could  he  make  her  love  him  in 
the  same  way  ?  It  would  be  a  curious,  subtle 
experiment  to  try  to  win  one  woman's  heart  by 
winning  another's :  Bellairs  silently  decided  to 
make  it.  All  the  rest  of  that  afternoon  he  talked 
to  Clarice,  showing  to  her  the  new  self  that  Egypt 
had  given  him,  the  poetry  which  had  ousted  the 
prose  inherited  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors,  the 
sentiment  of  which  he  was  no  longer  ashamed  now 
he  felt  it  to  be  a  weapon  with  which  he  might  win 
two  hearts,  the  heart  that  contained  another  heart, 
as  one  conjurer's  box  contains  a  hundred  others. 

"  I  knew  it  when  I  first  saw  you,"  Clarice  said. 
u  Directly  I  looked  at  you  that  evening  on  the 
bank  I  knew  it." 

"  How  strange,"  Bellairs  answered. 

"  And  you  —  did  you  know  it  when  you  heard 
me  playing  ?  " 

"  That  mazurka  !      Remember  I  am  a  man." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  garden.  It  was  night. 
Very  few  people  were  out,  for  a  great  Austrian 
pianist  was  playing  in  the  public  drawing-room, 
and  the  little  world  of  Luxor  sat  at  his  feet  relent- 
lessly. They  two  could  hear,  mingling  with  a 
Polonaise  of  Chopin,  the  throbbing  of  tom-toms  in 
the  dusty  village,  the  faint  and  suggestive  cry 
of  the  pipes,  which  fill  the  soul  at  the  same  time 
with  desire,  and  regret  for  past  desire  killed  by 


1 82  BYE-WAYS 

gratification.  Bellairs  had  been  making  love  to 
Clarice,  and  she  had  told  him  that  she  loved  him. 
And  he  had  kissed  her  and  his  kiss  had  been 
returned. 

"  Will  this  kiss,  too,  have  its  echo  ?  "  he 
thought ;  and  his  eyes  travelled  towards  the  lighted 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  behind  which  Lady 
Betty  sat.  He  turned  again  to  Clarice. 

41  Do  you  believe  in  echoes  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Echoes ! " 

"  That  each  thing  we  do  in  life,  each  word,  each 
cry,  each  act,  calls  into  being,  perhaps  very  soon, 
perhaps  very  late,  a  repetition  ?  " 

u  From  the  same  person  ?  " 

"  Or  from  some  other  person." 

"  What  a  curious  idea.  You  think  we  cannot 
ever  do  anything  without  finding  an  imitator !  I 
don't  like  to  imagine  it.  I  don't  fancy  that  there 
can  ever,  in  the  history  of  the  world,  be  an  exact 
repetition  of  our  feeling,  our  doing,  to-night." 

u  Yet,  there  may  be.     Who  knows  ?  " 

"I  do.  Instinct  tells  me  there  never  can. 
There  has  never  been,  never  will  be,  any  woman 
with  a  heart  just  like  mine,  given  to  a  man  just  in 
the  same  way  as  mine  is  given  to  you.  Why 
should  you  think  such  a  hateful  thing  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  It  was  only  an  idea  that  oc- 
curred to  me." 

And  again  he  glanced  towards  the  lighted 
windows. 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  183 

"  The  world  is  very  full  of  echoes,"  he  went  on  j 
"  our  troubles  are  repeated." 

"  But  not  our  joys,  our  deepest  joys.  No,  no, 
never!  " 

"  There  have  always  been  lovers,  and  they  all 
act  in  much  the  same  way  !  " 

"  Hateful !  Ah  !  why  can't  we  invent  some 
new  mode  of  expression  for  ourselves  —  you  and 
I?" 

"  Because  we  are  human  beings,  and  one  net- 
work of  tangled  limitations." 

"  You  make  me  cry  with  anger,"  she  said. 

And  when  he  looked,  he  saw  that  there  were 
tears  shining  in  her  eyes. 

At  that  moment  a  ghastly  sensation  of  com- 
punction swept  over  him.  What  had  he  done  ? 
A  deep  wrong,  the  deepest  wrong  man  can  do. 
He  had  made  an  experiment,  as  a  scientist  may 
make  an  experiment.  He  had  vivisected  a  soul, 
but  the  soul  was  yet  ignorant  of  the  fact.  When 
it  knew,  would  it  die  ?  But  then  he  told  himself 
he  had  to  do  it.  For  he  loved  passionately,  and 
was  certain  that  he  could  only  gain  the  heart  he 
had  not  yet  completely  won  by  gaining  this  heart 
that  he  had  completely  won.  He  had  made  an 
experiment.  If  it  failed  !  But  it  could  not  fail. 
All  that  Clarice  said,  all  that  she  thought,  all  that 
she  desired,  Betty  said,  thought,  desired.  After 
the  necessary  interval  the  echo  must  follow  the 
voice.  And  he  smiled  to  himself. 


1 84  BYE-WAYS 

"Why  do  you  smile  like  that  ?  "  Clarice  asked. 

"  Because  —  because  I  thought  I  heard  an 
echo,"  he  replied.  And  then  they  kissed  again. 
He,  with  his  eyes  shut,  forced  his  imagination  to  tell 
him  that  the  lips  he  pressed  were  the  lips  of  Betty. 
She  thought  only  of  the  lips  of  love,  that  burn  up 
all  the  recollections  of  the  lonely  years,  all  the 
phantoms  which  dwell  in  the  deserts  through  which 
women  pass  to  joy  —  or  to  despair. 

The  Austrian  pianist  was  exhausted.  Even  his 
long  hair  could  no  longer  sustain  his  failing  ener- 
gies. He  expired  magnificently,  the  seventh 
rhapsody  of  Liszt  serving  as  his  bier.  Lady  Betty 
came  out  into  the  garden. 

"  How  unmusical  you  two  are,"  she  said ;  "  his 
playing  was  exquisite." 

"  We  heard  finer  music  here,"  Clarice  answered, 
as  she  got  up  to  go  back  to  the  dahabeeyah  — 
"  did  we  not  ?  " 

She  turned  to  Bellairs.  He  was  looking  at  Lady 
Betty  and  did  not  hear.  Clarice's  cheek  flushed 
angrily. 

"  Come,  Betty,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Good-night, 
Mr  Bellairs." 

u  Good-night,  Mr  Bellairs,"  echoed  Lady 
Betty. 

The  two  women  moved  away,  and  vanished 
down  the  narrow  and  dusty  avenue  that  leads  to 
the  bank  of  the  Nile.  Bellairs  stood  looking  after 
them.  He  was  wondering  why  he  loved  Betty 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  185 

and  did  not  love  Clarice.  It  seemed  feeble  to 
love  an  echo.  Yet,  the  intonation  of  an  echo  is 
sometimes  exquisite  in  its  trilling  vagueness,  its 
far-off,  thrilling  beauty.  And  Bellairs  fancied  that 
if  he  once  wakened  Betty  to  passion  he  would 
free  her,  in  a  moment,  from  her  curious  bondage, 
would  give  to  her  the  soul  that  Clarice  must 
surely  have  crushed  down  and  expelled,  replacing 
it  with  a  replica  of  her  own  soul.  And  then  he 
asked  himself,  being  analytically  inclined  that  night, 
what  he  adored  in  Betty.  Was  it  merely  her  fresh 
young  beauty  ?  It  could  not  be  her  nature  ;  for 
that,  at  present,  was  merely  Clarice's,  and  he  did 
not  love  the  nature  of  Clarice.  Yet  he  felt  it  was 
something  more  than  her  beauty.  When  he  had  made 
her  love  him  he  would  know ;  for,  when  he  had 
made  her  love  him,  he  would  force  her  to  be  herself. 
He  watched  the  bats  circling  among  the  shadowy 
palms.  How  gentle  the  air  was.  How  sweet  the 
stars  looked.  Bellairs  thought  of  England  that 
was  so  far  away.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he 
could  ever  be  in  London  again,  ever  again  assume 
a  Piccadilly  nature,  and  laugh  at  the  folly  of  hav- 
ing a  romance.  Yes,  it  seemed  impossible. 
Nevertheless,  in  a  fortnight  he  must  go.  But  he 
would  take  Betty's  promise  with  him.  He  was 
resolved  on  that.  And  then  he  left  the  silent 
garden  to  the  bats,  and  was  soon  between  the 
mosquito  curtains,  dreaming. 


1 86  BYE-WAYS 

Three  days  afterwards  Clarice  was  prostrated 
with  a  nervous  headache.  She  could  not  bear  to 
have  any  one  in  her  cabin,  and  Lady  Betty  sat  on 
the  deck  of  the  £)ueen  Hatasoo  quite  inconsolable. 
Bellairs,  arriving  to  pay  his  usual  afternoon  call, 
found  her  there.  Lord  Braydon  was  out,  sailing 
in  a  flat-bottomed  boat  far  up  the  river  with  Lady 
Braydon,  so  Lady  Betty  was  quite  desolate.  She 
told  Bellairs  so  mournfully. 

"  And  Clarice  won't  let  me  come  near  her,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  A  step  on  the  floor,  the  creak  of  the 
cabin  door  as  I  come  in,  tortures  her.  She  is 
all  nerves.  I  hope  I  shan't  have  her  headache 
presently." 

« Is  it  likely?" 

WI  often  do.  She  seems  to  pass  it  on  to  me. 
I  never  had  a  headache  until  I  knew  her.  But, 
indeed,  I  never  seemed  to  live,  I  never  seemed  to 
know  anything,  be  anything,  until  she  came  into 
my  life." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  you  before  you  knew  her," 
Bellairs  said. 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  perhaps  to  see  if  you  were 
really  so  very  different  from  what  you  are  now." 

"  I  was  —  utterly." 

11  What  were  you  like  ?  " 

"  I  can't  remember  —  but  I  was  utterly  different." 

As  she  ceased  speaking,  Bellairs  glanced  over 
the  rail  to  the  river  bank.  Two  blue-robed  donkey 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  187 

boys  stood  there  trying  to  attract  his  attention, 
and  pointing  significantly  to  their  gaily-bedizened 
donkeys. 

"  Shall  we  go  for  a  ride  ? "  he  said  to  Lady 
Betty.  "  Just  along  the  river  bank  ?  Then  we 
shall  see  Lord  Braydon  as  he  sails  back.  Mdlle. 
Leroux  won't  miss  you.  Shall  we  go  ?  " 

Betty  hesitated.  But  she  could  do  the  invalid 
no  good  by  staying.  So  she  assented.  Bellairs 
helped  her  to  the  bank  and  placed  her  in  the  smart 
red  saddle.  He  motioned  the  boys  to  keep  well  in 
the  rear,  and  they  started  at  a  quick,  tripping  walk. 
As  they  went,  a  white  face  appeared  at  a  cabin  win- 
dow, staring  after  them,  the  face  of  Clarice,  who  had 
with  difficulty  lifted  her  throbbing  head  from  the  pil- 
low. She  watched  the  donkeys  diminishing  till  they 
were  black  shadows  moving  along  against  the  sky, 
then  she  began  to  cry  weakly,  but  only  because  she 
was  too  ill  to  be  with  them.  Her  gift  of  prophecy 
failed  her  at  this  critical  juncture  of  her  life,  and  she 
had  no  sense  of  a  coming  disaster,  as  she  lay  back 
on  her  berth,  and  gave  herself  up  once  more  to  pain. 

That  evening  Lord  Braydon  asked  Bellairs  to 
dine  on  the  dahabeeyah,  and  he  accepted  the  invi- 
tation. Clarice  was  still  in  durance,  having  entirely 
failed  to  pass  her  headache  on  to  Lady  Betty. 
After  dinner  Lord  Braydon  went  into  the  saloon  to 
write  a  letter  to  England,  and  Lady  Betty  and 
Bellairs  had  the  deck  to  themselves.  He  was 
resolved  to  put  his  fate  to  the  touch  j  for,  during 


1 88  BYE-WAYS 

the  donkey  ride,  he  had  discovered  the  change  in 
Betty  which  he  had  so  eagerly  desired,  the  change 
from  warm  friendship  to  a  different  feeling.  The 
girl  had  not  acknowledged  it.  Bellairs  had  not 
asked  her  to  do  so  ;  but  he  meant  to.  Only  the 
thought  of  his  treachery  to  the  woman  lying  in  the 
cabin  below  held  him  back,  just  for  a  moment,  and 
prompted  him  to  talk  lightly  of  indifferent  things. 
But  that  treachery  had  been  a  necessary  manoeuvre 
in  his  campaign  of  happiness.  He  strove  to  dis- 
miss it  from  his  mind  as  he  leant  forward  in  his 
chair,  and  led  Lady  Betty  to  the  subject  that  lay  so 
near  to  his  heart. 

"  You  love  me  ?  "  she  said  presently. 

"  Yes  —  deeply.     You  are  angry  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  be  ?     No,  no  —  and  yet  —  " 

"Yes?" 

"  And  yet,  when  you  told  me,  I  felt  sad." 

Bellairs  looked  keenly  vexed,  and  she  hastened 
to  add  •.  — • 

"Not  because  I  am  —  indifferent.  No,  no.  I 
can't  explain  why  the  feeling  came.  It  was  gone 
in  a  moment.  And  now  —  " 

"  Now  you  are  happy  ?  " 

He  caught  her  hand  and  she  left  it  in  his. 

"  Yes,  very  happy." 

Bellairs  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  —  as  he 
lifted  himself  up  a  white  hand  appeared  on  the  rail 
of  the  companion  that  led  from  the  lower  to  the 
upper  deck  of  the  Hatasoo.  Clarice  wearily  dragged 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  189 

herself  up.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  shawl  and  looked 
very  ill.  Betty  ran  to  help  her. 

"  I  thought  I  must  get  a  little  air,"  she  said 
feebly.  «  How  d'  you  do,  Mr  Bellairs  ?  " 

She  sank  down  in  a  chair. 

Bellairs  felt  like  a  man  between  two  fires. 

Two  days  later  Lord  Braydon  gave  his  consent 
to  his  daughter's  engagement  with  Bellairs,  and 
Lady  Betty  ran  to  tell  Clarice.  She  had  not  pre- 
viously said  a  word  to  her  friend  of  what  had  passed 
between  her  and  Bellairs.  He  had  begged  her  to 
keep  silence  until  he  had  spoken  to  Lord  Braydon, 
and  she  had  promised  and  had  kept  her  promise. 
But  now  she  rushed  into  the  saloon  where  Clarice 
was  playing  Chopin,  and,  throwing  her  arms  round 
her  friend,  told  her  the  great  news.  The  body  of 
Clarice  became  rigid  in  her  arms. 

"  And  the  king  has  consented,"  Betty  cried. 

The  king  was  her  father. 

"  Clarice,  Clarice,  is  n't  it  wonderful  ?  " 

"  Wonderful  !  I  thought  so  when  you  told  me. 
But  already  I  begin  to  doubt  if  it  is." 

•"  To  doubt,  Clarice  ?  " 

"To  doubt  whether  anything  a  man  does  is 
wonderful." 

That  was  all  Clarice  said.  Then  she  kissed 
Betty,  and  went  on  playing  Chopin  feverishly, 
while  Betty  told,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
music,  all  that  was  in  her  heart. 


190  BYE-WAYS 

"  And,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  love  him,  Clarice ; 
I  love  him  intensely.  I  shall  always  love  him." 

Clarice  played  a  final  chord  and  got  up. 

Bellairs  lunched  on  the  dahabeeyah  that  day  and 
Clarice  met  him  as  usual.  Her  manner  gave  no 
sign  of  any  mental  disturbance.  Perhaps  it  was 
curiously  calm.  He  wondered  a  little,  but  was  too 
happy  to  wonder  much.  Joy  made  him  cruel,  for 
nothing  is  so  cruel  as  joy.  Only  he  was  glad  that 
Clarice  had  so  much  pride,  for  he  thought  now  that 
in  her  pride  lay  his  safety.  He  no  longer  feared 
that  she  would  condescend  to  a  scene,  and  he  even 
thought  that  perhaps  she  did  not  feel  so  deeply  as 
he  had  supposed. 

"  After  all,"  he  said  to  himself  exultantly, 
"  there  's  no  harm  done.  I  need  not  have  been  so 
conscience-stricken.  What  is  a  pretty  speech  and 
a  kiss  to  a  woman  who  has  lived,  travelled  over  the 
world,  read  widely,  thought  many  things  ?  Now, 
if  I  had  treated  Betty  in  such  a  way  I  should  be  a 
blackguard.  She  could  not  have  understood.  She 
could  only  have  suffered.  I  will  never  hurt  her  — 
Betty  !  " 

His  nature  was  so  full  of  her  that  it  could  no 
longer  hold  any  thought  of  Clarice.  And  for  a 
little  while,  as  Bellairs  dived  into  Betty's  heart,  he 
was  astonished  at  the  passion  he  found  there,  and 
congratulated  himself  on  having  released  her  from 
bondage.  Now,  at  least,  he  was  teaching  her  to 
be  herself.  He  was  killing  the  echo  and  creating 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  191 

a  voice,  a  beautiful,  clear,  radiant  voice  that  would 
sing  to  him,  to  him  alone. 

"  Betty  has  a  great  deal  in  her,"  he  said  to 
Clarice  once. 

"  Yes  —  a  great  deal.  Who  put  it  there,  do  you 
think  ? " 

"  Who  ?  Why,  nobody.  Surely  you  would 
not  say  that  all  you  yourself  have  of — of  strength, 
originality,  courage,  was  put  into  you  by  some 
other  man  or  woman." 

"  No.  I  would  not  say  that.  But  then  —  I  am 
not  Betty." 

Bellairs  felt  irritated. 

"  Please  don't  run  Betty  down,"  he  exclaimed 
hastily. 

"  I  !  I  run  down  Betty  !  I  don't  think  you 
understand  what  I  feel  about  Betty.  She  is  the  one 
perfect  being  I  know.  I  worship  her." 

u  I  am  sure  you  do,"  he  said,  mollified.  "  And 
you  have  done  much  for  her,  perhaps  too  much." 

"  I  cannot  tell  that  —  yet,"  Clarice  answered. 
"  Some  day  I  may  know  whether  I  have  done  very 
much,  or  very  little." 

"  Some  day  —  when  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  very  soon." 

Bellairs  wondered  what  she  meant,  and  wondered, 
too,  why  he  had  a  sudden  sense  of  uneasiness. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  this  conversation  that 
a  light  cloud  seemed  to  float  across  his  lover's 
happiness  with  Betty.  He  could  not  tell  the  exact 


192  BYE-WAYS 

moment  when  it  came,  nor  from  what  quarter  it 
journeyed.  But  he  felt  the  obscuring  of  the  sun 
and  the  lessening  of  the  lovely  warmth  of  intimacy. 
He  was  chilled  and  alarmed,  and  at  night,  when  he 
was  alone  with  Betty  in  the  stern  of  the  Hatasoo 
bidding  her  good-bye,  he  could  not  refrain  from 
saying  :  — 

"  Betty,  is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"  The  matter,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Are  you  quite  happy  to-day  ?  Quite  as 
happy  as  you  were  yesterday  ?  " 

u  I  suppose  so  —  I  believe  so." 

But  she  did  not  speak  with  a  perfect  conviction, 
and  Bellairs  was  more  gravely  troubled. 

u  I  am  certain  something  is  wrong,"  he  per- 
sisted. "  I  have  done  something  that  has  offended 
you,  or  said  something  stupid.  What  is  it  ?  Do 
tell  me." 

"  I  can't.  There  is  nothing  to  tell.  Really, 
there  is  not." 

"  You  would  tell  me  if  there  was  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  you  love  me  as  much  as  ever  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  asking  them  mutely  to 
tell  him  the  truth.  And  he  thought  their  ex- 
pression was  strangely  cold.  The  light  had  surely 
faded  out  of  them.  He  kissed  her  silently  and 
went  forward.  Clarice  was  standing  there  looking 
at  the  rising  moon. 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  193 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  How  grave  you  look,"  she  answered,  not 
seeing  the  hand. 

"The  moonlight  makes  people  look  unnatural." 

"  It  does  not  reach  the  deck  yet." 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  again,  and  he  went  down 
the  stairs. 

She  looked  after  him  with  a  smile.  When  he 
had  gone,  she  turned  her  head  and  called. 

"  Betty  !  " 

"Yes!" 

"  Come  here  and  sit  with  me.  Let  us  watch 
the  moon.  Don't  talk.  I  want  to  think  —  and 
to  make  you  think  —  as  I  do." 

The  cloud  which  Bellairs  had  fancied  he  noticed 
did  not  dissolve  in  the  night.  It  was  not  drawn  up 
mysteriously  into  the  sun  to  fade  in  gold.  On  the 
contrary,  next  day  he  could  no  longer  pretend  to 
himself  that  his  anxiety  as  a  lover  rendered  him 
foolishly  self-conscious,  dangerously  observant  of 
the  merest  trifles.  There  really  was  a  change  in 
Betty,  and  a  change  which  grew.  He  became 
seriously  alarmed.  Could  it  be  possible  that  the 
ardent  passion  which  she  had  displayed  in  the  first 
moments  of  their  engagement  was  already  subsid- 
ing as  cynics  say  passion  subsides  after  marriage  ? 
Such  a  supposition  seemed  ridiculous.  The  ardour 
which  has  never  fulfilled  itself  is  not  liable  to  cool. 
And  Betty  was  a  young  girl  who  had  not  known 
love  before.  If  she  tired  of  it  after  so  short  an 
'3 


i94  BYE-WAYS 

experience  of  its  delights,  she  could  be  nothing 
less  than  a  wholly  unnatural  and  distorted  being. 
And  she  was  strangely  natural.  Bellairs  rode  out 
alone  with  her  along  the  built-up  brown  roads  into 
the  desert,  and  tried  to  interest  her,  but  she  was 
abstracted  and  seemed  deep  in  thought.  Often  she 
did  n't  hear  what  he  was  saying,  and  when  she  did 
hear  and  replied,  her  answers  were  short  and  care- 
less, and  rather  dismissed  than  encouraged  the 
subject  to  which  they  were  applied.  Bellairs,  at 
last,  gave  up  attempting  to  talk,  and  from  time  to 
time  stole  a  cautious  glance  at  her  pretty  face.  He 
noticed  that  it  wore  a  puzzled  expression,  as  if  she 
were  turning  over  something  in  her  mind  and  could 
not  come  to  a  conclusion  about  it.  She  did  not 
look  exactly  sad,  but  merely  grave  and  distrait. 
At  length  he  exclaimed,  determined  to  rouse  her 
into  some  sort  of  comradeship  :  — 

"  You  never  caught  that  headache,  did  you  ?  " 

u  Clarice's,  you  mean  ?     No." 

"  Is  it  coming  on  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  feel  perfectly  well.  What  made 
you  think  it  was  ?  " 

"  You  won't  talk  to  me,  and  you  look  so  preter- 
naturally  serious.  I  am  sure  I  have  unwittingly 
offended  you  ?  " 

"  No,  you  have  n't.  You  are  just  as  you  always 
are,  better  to  me  than  I  deserve." 

"  You  deserve  the  best  man  in  the  world." 

"  I  already  have  the  best  woman." 


AN    ECHO    IN    EGYPT  !95 

«  Mdlle.  Leroux  ?  " 

"Yes;   Clarice." 

11  You  admire  her  very  much." 

41  Of  course.  I  would  give  anything  to  be  like 
her." 

Bellairs  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  said  with 
a  slight,  uneasy  laugh  :  — 

"  But  you  are  wonderfully  like  her." 

Betty  looked  surprised. 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  she  answered. 

"  No,  because  we  never  see  ourselves.  But 
when  I  first  knew  you  both,  I  was  immensely 
struck  by  the  curious  resemblance  between  you, 
in  mind,  in  the  things  you  said,  in  the  things  you 
did,  the  people  you  liked." 

"  We  both  liked  you." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  would  have  been  strange  if  we  had  both 
loved  you  !  "  Betty  said,  musingly. 

Bellairs  laughed  again,  and  gave  his  horse  a  cut 
with  the  whip.  "  I  only  wanted  one  to  do  that," 
he  said,  not  quite  truthfully.  "  And,  thank  God, 
I  have  got  my  desire." 

Betty  did  not  answer. 

"  Have  n't  I  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  You  know  whether  you  have  or  not,"  she 
answered.  "  How  beautiful  the  sunset  is  going  to 
be  to-night.  Look  at  the  light  over  Karnak." 

She  pointed  towards  the  temple  with  her  whip. 
Bellairs  felt  a  crawling  despair  that  numbed  him 


196  BYE-WAYS 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Was  he  torturing  himself 
foolishly,  or  was  this  instinct  which  gnawed  at  his 
heart  a  thing  to  be  reckoned  with  ?  When  he  left 
Betty  at  the  dahabeeyah,  he  walked  slowly,  in  the 
gathering  shadows,  along  the  path  which  skirts 
the  dingy  temple  of  Luxor.  This  change  in  Betty 
was  simply  inexplicable.  In  no  way  could  he 
account  for  it.  She  had  not  the  definite,  angry 
coldness  of  a  girl  who  had  made  a  dreadful  mistake 
and  hated  the  man  who  had  led  her  to  make  it. 
No ;  she  seemed  rather  in  a  state  of  mental  transi- 
tion. She  was  setting  foot  on  some  bridge,  which, 
Bellairs  felt,  led  away  from  the  shore  on  which  she 
had  been  standing  with  him.  Was  her  first  trans- 
port of  love  and  joy  a  pretence  ?  He  could  not 
believe  so.  He  knew  it  was  genuine.  That  was 
the  puzzle  which  he  could  not  put  together.  And 
then  he  tried  to  comfort  himself  by  thinking  deliber- 
ately of  the  many  moods  that  make  the  feminine 
mind  so  full  of  April  weather,  of  how  they  come 
and  pass  and  are  dead.  All  men  had  suffered  from 
them,  especially  all  lovers.  He  could  not  expect  to 
be  exempt  —  only,  till  now,  Betty  had  seemed  so 
utterly  free  from  moods,  so  steadily  frank,  eager, 
charming,  responsive.  Bellairs  finally  argued  him- 
self into  a  condition  of  despair,  during  which  he 
came  to  a  resolve  of  despair.  He  silently  decided 
to  seek  a  quiet  interview  with  Clarice,  and  ask  her 
what  was  the  matter  with  Betty.  After  all,  there 
was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  take  this  step. 


AN   ECHO   IN   EGYPT  197 

Clarice  had  evidently  not  cared  deeply  for  him. 
Otherwise,  she  would  not  have  accepted  his  deser- 
tion with  such  truly  agreeable  fortitude.  Theirs 
had  been  a  passing  flirtation  —  nothing  more. 
And,  indeed,  their  intimacy  gave  him  the  right  to 
consult  her,  while  her  close  knowledge  of  Betty 
must  render  her  an  infallible  judge  of  any  reasons 
which  there  might  be  to  render  the  latter's  conduct 
intelligible. 

Bellairs  did  not  have  to  wait  long  before  he  put 
his  resolve  into  practice.  That  evening  Betty, 
who  had  become  more  and  more  abstracted  and 
silent,  got  up  soon  after  dinner,  and  said  she  was 
tired,  and  was  going  to  bed.  Bellairs  tried  to  get 
a  moment  with  her  alone,  but  she  frustrated  the 
attempt  by  holding  out  her  hand  to  him  in  public 
and  markedly  bidding  him  good-night  before  Lord 
and  Lady  Braydon.  When  she  had  disappeared, 
Bellairs  sought  Clarice,  who  was  downstairs  in  the 
saloon  writing  letters.  Clarice  looked  up  from  the 
blotting-pad  as  he  entered. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  exclaimed  abruptly. 

"  I  am  writing  letters." 

"  Do  give  me  a  few  minutes." 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  pushing  her  paper  away 
and  laying  down  her  pen.  "  What  is  it  ? " 

"  That 's  what  I  want  to  ask  you.  What  has 
come  over  Betty  ?  Is  she  ill  ?  " 

"  Betty  !      Has  anything  come  over  her  ?  " 


198  BYE-WAYS 

Bellairs  tapped  his  fingers  impatiently  on  the 
table. 

u  Don't  tell  me  you  have  n't  noticed  the  change," 
he  said.  u  Forgive  me  for  saying  that  I  could  n't 
believe  it  if  you  did." 

"  In  that  case  I  won't  trouble  myself  to  say 
it." 

"  Ah  —  you  have  !  Then  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Tell  me." 

"  Hush,  don't  speak  so  loud  or  the  sailors  will 
hear  you,  and  Abdul  understands  English.  I  did 
not  say  I  knew  the  reason  of  this  change." 

"You  must.  You  are  Betty's  other  self,  or 
rather  she  is  —  was  —  yours." 

"  Was  !     Do  you  mean  that  she  is  not  now  ?  " 

"  Remember,  she  loves  me." 

"  Oh,  and  that  makes  a  difference  ?  " 

"  Surely  ! " 

"  You  have  observed  it  ?  " 

Bellairs  hesitated.  He  scarcely  knew  whether 
to  reply  in  the  affirmative  or  the  negative.  He 
resolved  upon  a  compromise. 

u  There  has  hardly  been  time  yet,"  he  said ; 
"  naturally,  I  expect  that  Betty  will  place  me  be- 
fore every  one  else." 

Mdlle.  Leroux's  eyes  flashed  under  the  hanging 
lamp. 

"  What  we  expect  is  not  always  what  we  get," 
she  said  significantly. 

Bellairs  flushed.     He  understood  that  she  was 


AN    ECHO    IN    EGYPT  199 

alluding  to  his  treatment  of  her,  but  he  preferred 
to  ignore  it,  and  went  on  :  — 

"  Is  Betty  ill  to-night  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Then  what  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?  I  ask 
you  for  a  plain  answer.  I  think  I  deserve  so 
much." 

"  Men  are  always  so  deserving,"  she  said  with 
bitterness. 

"And  women  are  always  so  exacting,"  he  re- 
torted. "  But  please  answer  my  question." 

u  I  will  first  ask  you  another.  If  you  reply 
frankly  to  me,  I  will  reply  frankly  to  you." 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  supporting 
her  face  on  the  palms  of  her  upturned  hands,  and 
looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Ask  me,"  said  Bellairs  eagerly ;  "  I  '11  do 
anything  if  you  '11  only  explain  Betty  to  me." 

"  Why  did  you  try  to  make  me  love  you  ?  Why 
did  you  make  love  to  me  ?  " 

Bellairs  pushed  back  his  chair  and  there  was  an 
awkward  silence.  Clarice's  question  was  very  un- 
expected and  very  difficult  to  answer. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  still  with  her  eyes  on  his. 

"  Is  it  any  good  our  discussing  this  ?  "  he  replied 
at  length.  "  It  meant  nothing  to  you.  It  is  over." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  meant  nothing  to  me  ? " 

"  You  have  shown  that  by  your  conduct.  You 
care  nothing.  I  am  indifferent  to  you." 

"  No,  not  indifferent,  not  at  all." 


200  BYE-WAYS 

"  What  ?     You  can't  mean  —  no,  it  is  absurd  !  " 

"  What  is  absurd  ?  " 

"You  can't  —  you  don't  mean  that  you  really 
have  any  feeling  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  mean  it !  " 

Bellairs  felt  very  uncomfortable.  He  scarcely 
knew  what  to  do  or  say.  He  fidgeted  on  his  chair 
almost  like  a  boy  caught  in  a  dishonest  act. 

"  We  had  really  better  not  talk  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well."  Clarice  reached  out  her  hand  for 
her  pen  and  drew  the  blotting-pad  towards  her. 

"  But  Betty  ?  "  said  Bellairs  uneasily. 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question.  I  shall 
not  answer  yours."  She  dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink 
and  prepared  to  go  on  with  her  letter.  Bellairs 
grew  desperate. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said ;  "  you  must  tell  me  the 
reason  of  this  change  in  Betty.  Now  I  know  you 
don't  care  for  me,  you  don't  really  love  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  love  you,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  Well,  then,  since  you  say  that,  I  will  answer 
your  question.  I  tried  to  win  your  heart  because 
I  wanted  to  win  Betty's  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  Betty  is  practically  you  —  or  was,  your 
echo,  in  word,  deed,  thought.  Her  mind,  her  heart, 
followed  yours  in  everything.  I  loved  her,  and  I 
knew  that  if  I  made  you  like  me  very  much  she 
must  follow  you  in  that  feeling  as  in  others.  Since 
you  don't  love  me,  I  can  dare  to  tell  you  this." 


AN    ECHO    IN   EGYPT  201 

Clarice  sat  silent. 

u  Are  you  angry  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

"  That 's  all."     Again  a  silence. 

"  It  was  your  fault  in  a  way,"  Bellairs  said 
awkwardly.  "  You  made  Betty  your  other  self. 
Why  did  you  not  let  her  alone  ?  " 

"  Can  a  strong  nature  help  impressing  itself  on 
others  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  'm  no  psychologist.    But 

—  you  must  let  Betty  alone  now,"  he  said. 

"  Suppose  I  can't.  Suppose  this  sympathy  be- 
tween us  has  got  beyond  my  control  ?  " 

"  I  shall  release  Betty  from  this  bondage  to  you," 
Bellairs  said,  "  my  love  will  —  " 

"  You  !  Your  love  !  "  Clarice  said.  And  she 
burst  into  a  laugh. 

Bellairs  suddenly  leaned  forward  across  the  table. 

"  I  believe  you  hate  me,"  he  exclaimed. 

She,  on  her  part,  leaned  forward  till  her  face  was 
near  his. 

"  You  're  right,"  she  whispered ;  "I  do  hate 
you.  Now  you  know  what 's  the  matter  with 
Betty." 

For  a  moment  Bellairs  did  not  understand. 

"  Now  —  I  know  —  "  he  repeated.  "  I  don't  — 
Ah  !  "  Comprehension  flashed  upon  him. 

"  You  devil,"  he  said  —  "  you  she-devil !    Curse 

—  curse  you  !  "     Clarice  laughed  again.      Bellairs 
sprang  up. 


202  BYE-WAYS 

41  No,  no,  I  won't  believe  it,"  he  cried.  "  I  can't. 
The  thing  's  impossible." 

"Is  it?  The  pendulum  of  my  heart  has  swung 
back  from  love  to  hate.  Betty's  is  following." 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  Wait,  and  you  will  see.  Already  she  seems  to 
care  less  for  you.  You  yourself  have  remarked  it." 

"  I  have  not,"  he  said  with  violence. 

"To-morrow  she  will  care  less,  and  so  less  — 
less  —  till  she  too  —  hates  you." 

"  Never ! " 

"Only  wait  —  and  you  will  know.  And  now, 
good-night.  I  must  really  write  my  letter.  It  is 
to  my  mother,  and  must  go  by  to-morrow's  mail." 

She  resumed  her  writing  quietly.  Bellairs  watched 
her  for  a  moment.  Then  he  strode  out  of  the 
room,  across  the  gangway,  up  the  bank. 

How  dark  the  night  was. 

The  explanation  of  Clarice  struck  Bellairs  with 
a  benumbing  force.  In  vain  he  argued  to  himself 
that  it  was  not  the  true  one,  that  no  heart  could 
follow  another  as  she  said  Betty's  followed  hers, 
that  no  nature  could  merely  for  ever  echo  another's. 
Some  furtive  despair  lurking  in  his  soul  whispered 
that  she  had  spoken  the  truth.  An  appalling  sense 
of  utter  impotence  seized  him,  as  it  seizes  a  man 
who  rights  with  a  shadow.  But  he  resolved  to  fight. 
His  whole  life's  happiness  hung  on  the  issue. 

On  the  following  day  he  forced  himself  to  be 


AN    ECHO    IN    EGYPT  203 

cheerful,  gay,  talkative.  He  went  early  to  the 
dahabeeyah,  and  proposed  to  Lord  Braydon  a 
picnic  to  Thebes.  Lord  Braydon  assented.  A 
hamper  was  packed.  The  boat  was  ordered.  The 
little  party  assembled  on  the  deck  of  the  Hatasoo 
for  the  start ;  Lady  Braydon,  in  a  wide  hat  and 
sweeping  grey  veil,  Clarice  with  her  big  white 
parasol  lined  with  pale  green,  Lord  Braydon  in  his 
helmet,  his  eyes  protected  by  enormous  spectacles. 
But  where  was  Betty  ?  Abdul,  the  dragoman, 
went  to  tell  her  that  they  were  going.  She  came, 
without  her  hat,  or  gloves,  holding  a  palm  leaf  fan 
in  her  hand. 

"  I  am  not  coming,"  she  said. 

Clarice  glanced  at  Bellairs.  He  pressed  his 
lips  together  and  felt  that  he  was  turning  white 
underneath  the  tan  the  Egyptian  sun  rays  had 
painted  on  his  cheeks.  Lady  Braydon  protested. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Betty  ?  "  she  said.  "  The 
donkeys  are  ordered  and  waiting  for  us  on  the 
opposite  bank.  Why  are  n't  you  coming  ?  " 

"  I  have  got  a  headache.  I  'm  afraid  of  the 
sun  to-day."  All  persuasion  was  useless.  They 
had  to  set  out  without  her.  Bellairs  was  bitterly 
angry,  bitterly  afraid.  He  could  scarcely  make  the 
necessary  effort  to  be  polite  and  talkative,  but  Lord 
and  Lady  Braydon  readily  excused  his  gloom,  un- 
derstanding his  disappointment,  and  Clarice  no 
longer  desired  his  conversation.  That  night  he 
did  not  see  Betty.  She  was  confined  to  her  cabin 


204-  BYE-WAYS 

and  would  see  no  one  but  Clarice.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  Bellairs  went  very  early  to  the  daha- 
beeyah  and  asked  for  her.  Abdul  took  his  message, 
and,  after  an  interval,  returned  to  him  with  the 
following  note  :  — 

"  DEAR  MR  BELLAIRS,  —  I  am  very  sorry  I  -  cannot 
see  you  this  morning,  but  I  am  still  very  unwell.  I 
think  the  mental  agony  I  have  been  and  am  undergoing 
accounts  for  my  condition.  I  must  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  cannot  marry  you.  I  mistook  my  feeling  for  you.  I 
honestly  thought  it  love.  I  find  it  is  only  friendship. 
Can  you  ever  forgive  me  the  pain  I  am  causing  you  ?  I 
cannot  forgive  myself.  But  I  should  do  you  a  much 
greater  wrong  by  marrying  you  than  by  giving  you  up. 
I  have  told  my  father  and  mother.  See  them  if  you  like. 
We  sail  to-morrow  morning  for  Assouan. 

"BETTY." 

Bellairs,  crumpling  this  note  in  his  hand,  would 
have  burst  forth  into  a  passion  of  useless  rage  and 
despair,  but  Abdul's  lustrous  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him.  Abdul's  dignified  form  calmly  waited  his 
pleasure. 

"  Where  is  Lord  Braydon  ?  "  said  Bellairs,  "  I 
must  see  him." 

"  His  lordship  is  on  the  second  deck,  sir." 

"  Take  me  to  him." 

The  interview  that  followed  only  increased  the 
despair  of  Bellairs.  Lord  Braydon  was  most  sym- 
pathetic, most  courteously  sorry,  but  he  said  that 


AN   ECHO    IN   EGYPT  205 

his  daughter's  decision  was  absolutely  irrevocable, 
and  he  could  not  attempt  to  coerce  her  in  such  an 
important  matter. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  must  see  her  before  you  sail," 
said  Bellairs  at  last.  "  I  think  she  owes  me  at 
least  that  one  last  debt." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  said  Lord  Braydon.  "  Come 
at  six.  I  will  undertake  that  you  shall  see  her." 

How  Bellairs  spent  the  intervening  hours  he 
could  never  remember.  He  did  not  go  back  to 
the  hotel ;  he  must  have  wandered  all  day  along 
the  river  bank.  Yet  he  felt  neither  the  heat,  nor 
any  fatigue,  nor  any  hunger.  At  six  o'clock  he 
reached  the  dahabeeyah.  Lady  Betty  was  sitting 
alone  on  the  deck.  She  looked  very  pale  and  grave. 

"  My  father  and  mother  and  Clarice  have  gone 
up  to  the  hotel,"  she  said.  "  That  Austrian  is 
playing  again  this  evening." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  Bellairs  answered.  He  sat  down 
beside  her  and  tried  to  take  her  hand.  But  she 
would  not  let  him. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  No,  it 's  no  use.  I  have 
made  a  ghastly  mistake,  but  I  will  not  make  another. 
Oh,  forgive  me,  do  forgive  me  !  " 

"  How  can  I  ?  If  you  will  not  try  to  love  me 
my  life  is  ruined." 

"  Don't  say  that.  It 's  no  use  to  try  to  love. 
You  know  that.  We  must  just  let  ourselves  alone. 
Love  comes,  or  hate,  just  as  God  wills  it.  We 
can  only  accept  our  fate." 


206  BYE-WAYS 

"  As  God  wills,"  Bellairs  said  passionately ;  "  why 
do  you  say  that,  when  you  know  it  is  not  true  ?  " 

"  Not  true —  Mr  Bellairs  !  " 

"  Yes.  If  you  echoed  the  will  of  God  how 
could  I  blame  you  ?  We  must  all  do  that  —  at 
least,  when  we  are  good.  And  those  of  us  who 
are  wicked  I  suppose  echo  the  Devil.  But  you  — 
what  do  you  echo  ?  " 

"I  —  I  echo  no  one.     I  don't  understand  you." 

"  But  you  shall,  before  it  is  too  late.  Betty, 
be  yourself.  Emancipate  your  soul.  You  are  the 
echo  of  that  woman,  of  Clarice.  Don't  you  see 
it  ?  Don't  you  know  it  ?  You  are  her  echo  — 
and  she  hates  me  !  " 

Betty  drew  back  from  him  —  she  was  evidently 
alarmed. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  she  said.  "  Why  do  you 
say  such  things  to  me  ?  Clarice  and  I  love  each 
other,  it  is  true,  but  our  real  natures  are  totally 
different.  She  does  not  hate  you,  nor  do  I.  She 
has  never  said  one  word  against  you  to  me.  She 
has  always  told  me  how  much  she  liked  you.  What 
are  you  saying  ?  " 

"  The  truth  !  " 

"I  —  her  echo  !  Why,  then  —  then  if  that 
were  the  case  she  must  have  loved  you,  or  thought 
she  loved  you.  Do  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  Bellairs  answered  hope- 
lessly. 

"  Of    course    not.     The    idea    is    so    absurd. 


AN    ECHO    IN   EGYPT  207 

Clarice  —  oh  !  how  can  you  talk  like  this  ?  And 
if  I  am  only  an  echo,  as  you  call  it,  how  can  you 
say  you  care  for  me,  care  for  another  woman's 
shadow  ?  You  do  not  love  me." 

"  I  do  —  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Arid  yet  you  say  I  am  nothing,  that  I  have 
not  even  a  heart  of  my  own,  that  I  love  or  hate  at 
the  will  of  another." 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me  !  I  don't  know  what 
I  say.  I  only  know  I  love  you." 

Her  face  softened. 

"  And  you  deserve  to  be  loved,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
I  —  it  is  so  horrible  —  I  cannot !  " 

Suddenly  Bellairs  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  You  shall,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  shall.  I  will 
make  you."  But  she  pushed  him  back  with  a. 
strange  strength,  and  her  face  hardened  till  he 
scarcely  recognised  it. 

"  Don't  do  that  —  don't  touch  me  —  or  you  '11 
make  me  hate  you,"  she  said  vehemently. 

Bellairs  let  her  go.  At  that  moment  there  was 
a  step  on  the  deck.  Clarice  appeared.  She  did 
not  seem  to  notice  that  anything  was  wrong.  She 
smiled. 

"  Is  n't  it  sad,  Mr  Bellairs,"  she  said,  "  we  sail 
to-morrow.  I  love  Luxor.  I  can't  bear  to  leave  it." 

Bellairs  suddenly  turned  and  hurried  away.  He 
could  no  longer  trust  himself.  There  was  blood 
before  his  eyes. 


208  BYE-WAYS 

It  was  dawn.  The  Nile  was  smooth  as  a  river 
of  oil.  Light  mists  rolled  upwards  gently,  discov- 
ering the  rosy  flanks  of  the  Libyan  mountains  to 
the  sun.  The  sky  began  to  glimmer  with  a  danc- 
ing golden  heat.  On  the  brown  bank  where  the 
boats  lie  in  the  shadow  a  man  stood  alone.  His 
hands  were  tightly  clenched.  His  lips  worked 
silently.  His  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  stare.  And 
away  in  the  distance  up  river,  a  tiny  trail  of  smoke 
floated  towards  Luxor.  It  came  from  a  steam  tug 
that  drew  a  following  dahabeeyah. 

The  §>ueen  Hatasoo  was  on  her  voyage  to 
Assouan. 


THE    FACE   OF   THE    MONK 


THE   FACE   OF  THE    MONK 

I 

"  No,  it  will  not  hurt  him  to  see  you,"  the  doctor 
said  to  me  ;  "  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  recognise 
you.  He  is  the  quietest  patient  I  have  ever  had 
under  my  care  —  gentle,  kind,  agreeable,  perfect 
in  conduct,  and  yet  quite  mad.  You  know  him 
well  ?  " 

"  He  was  my  dearest  friend,"  I  said.  "  Before 
I  went  out  to  America  three  years  ago  we  were 
inseparable.  Doctor,  I  cannot  believe  that  he  is 
mad,  he  —  Hubert  Blair  —  one  of  the  cleverest 
young  writers  in  London,  so  brilliant,  so  acute ! 
Wild,  if  you  like,  a  libertine  perhaps,  a  strange 
mixture  of  the  intellectual  and  the  sensual  —  but 
mad  !  I  can't  believe  it !  " 

"  Not  when  I  tell  you  that  he  was  brought  to  me 
suffering  from  acute  religious  mania  ? " 

"  Religious !      Hubert  Blair  !  " 

"  Yes.  He  tried  to  destroy  himself,  declaring 
that  he  was  unfit  to  live,  that  he  was  a  curse  to 
some  person  unknown.  He  protested  that  each 
deed  of  his  affected  this  unknown  person,  that  his 
sins  were  counted  as  the  sins  of  another,  and  that 
this  other  had  haunted  him  —  would  haunt  him 
for  ever." 


212  BYE- WAYS 

The  doctor's  words  troubled  me. 

"Take  me  to  him,"  I  said  at  last.  "  Leave  us 
together." 

It  was  a  strange,  sad  moment  when  I  entered  the 
room  in  which  Hubert  was  sitting.  I  was  painfully 
agitated.  He  knew  me,  and  greeted  me  warmly. 
I  sat  down  opposite  to  him. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Hubert  looked  away 
into  the  fire.  He  saw,  I  think,  traced  in  scarlet 
flames,  the  scenes  he  was  going  to  describe  to  me ; 
and  I,  gazing  at  him,  wondered  of  what  nature 
the  change  in  my  friend  might  be.  That  he  had 
changed  since  we  were  together  three  years  ago 
was  evident,  yet  he  did  not  look  mad.  His  dark, 
clean-shaven  young  face  was  still  passionate.  The 
brown  eyes  were  still  lit  with  a  certain  devouring 
eagerness.  The  mouth  had  not  lost  its  mingled 
sweetness  and  sensuality.  But  Hubert  was  curi- 
ously transformed.  There  was  a  dignity,  almost 
an  elevation,  in  his  manner.  His  former  gaiety  had 
vanished.  I  knew,  without  words,  that  my  friend 
was  another  man  —  very  far  away  from  me  now. 
Yet  once  we  had  lived  together  as  chums,  and  had 
no  secrets  the  one  from  the  other. 

At  last  Hubert  looked  up  and  spoke. 

"  I  see  you  are  wondering  about  me,"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  altered,  of  course  —  completely 
altered." 


THE   FACE   OF   THE   MONK     213 

"Yes,"  I  said,  awkwardly  enough.  "Why  is 
that  ?  " 

I  longed  to  probe  this  madness  of  his  that  I 
might  convince  myself  of  it,  otherwise  Hubert's 
situation  must  for  ever  appal  me. 

He  answered  quietly,  "  I  will  tell  you  —  nobody 
else  knows  —  and  even  you  may  —  " 

He  hesitated,  then  he  said  :  — 

"  No,  you  will  believe  it." 

"  Yes,  if  you  tell  me  it  is  true." 

"  It  is  absolutely  true. 

"  Bernard,  you  know  what  I  was  when  you  left 
England  for  America  —  gay,  frivolous  in  my 
pleasures,  although  earnest  when  I  was  working. 
You  know  how  I  lived  to  sound  the  depths  of 
sensation,  how  I  loved  to  stretch  all  my  mental  and 
physical  capacities  to  the  snapping-point,  how  I 
shrank  from  no  sin  that  could  add  one  jot  or  tittle 
to  my  knowledge  of  the  mind  of  any  man  or 
woman  who  interested  me.  My  life  seemed  a  full 
life  then.  I  moved  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand 
intrigues.  I  strung  beads  of  all  emotions  upon  my 
rosary,  and  told  them  until  at  times  my  health 
gave  way.  You  remember  my  recurring  periods 
of  extraordinary  and  horrible  mental  depression  — 
when  life  was  a  demon  to  me,  and  all  my  success  in 
literature  less  than  nothing ;  when  I  fancied  myself 
hated,  and  could  believe  I  heard  phantom  voices 
abusing  me.  Then  those  fits  passed  away,  and 
once  more  I '  lived  as  ardently  as  ever,  the  most 


214  BYE-WAYS 

persistent  worker,  and  the  most  persistent  excite- 
ment-seeker in  London. 

"  Well,  after  you  went  away  I  continued  my 
career.  As  you  know,  my  success  increased. 
Through  many  sins  I  had  succeeded  in  diving  very 
deep  into  human  hearts  of  men  and  women.  Often 
I  led  people  deliberately  away  from  innocence  in 
order  that  I  might  observe  the  gradual  transforma- 
tion of  their  natures.  Often  I  spurred  them  on  to 
follies  that  I  might  see  the  effect  our  deeds  have 
upon  our  faces  —  the  seal  our  actions  set  upon 
our  souls.  I  was  utterly  unscrupulous,  and  yet  I 
thought  myself  good-hearted.  You  remember  that 
my  servants  always  loved  me,  that  I  attracted  peo- 
ple. I  can  say  this  to  you.  For  some  time  my 
usual  course  was  not  stayed.  Then  —  I  recollect 
it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  London  season  —  one 
of  my  horrible  fits  of  unreasonable  melancholy 
swept  over  me.  It  stunned  my  soul  like  a  heavy 
blow.  It  numbed  me.  I  could  not  go  about.  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  anybody.  I  could  only  shut 
myself  up  and  try  to  reason  myself  back  into  my 
usual  gaiety  and  excitement.  My  writing  was  put 
aside.  My  piano  was  locked.  I  tried  to  read,  but 
even  that  solace  was  denied  to  me.  My  attention  was 
utterly  self-centred,  riveted  upon  my  own  condition. 

u  Why,  I  said  to  myself,  am  I  the  victim  of  this 
despair,  this  despair  without  a  cause  ?  What  is 
this  oppression  which  weighs  me  down  without 
reason  ?  It  attacks  me  abruptly,  as  if  it  were  sent 


THE   FACE   OF   THE    MONK     215 

to  me  by  some  power,  shot  at  me  like  an  arrow  by 
an  enemy  hidden  in  the  dark.  I  am  well  —  I  am 
gay.  Life  is  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  me.  All 
that  I  do  interests  me.  My  soul  is  full  of  vitality. 
I  know  that  I  have  troops  of  friends,  that  I  am 
loved  and  thought  of  by  many  people.  And  then 
suddenly  the  arrow  strikes  me.  My  soul  is 
wounded  and  sickens  to  death.  Night  falls  over 
me,  night  so  sinister  that  I  shudder  when  its  twi- 
light comes.  All  my  senses  faint  within  me.  Life 

O  / 

is  at  once  a  hag,  weary,  degraded,  with  tears  on 
her  cheeks  and  despair  in  her  hollow  eyes.  I  feel 
that  I  am  deserted,  that  my  friends  despise  me,  that 
the  world  hates  me,  that  I  am  less  than  all  other 
men  —  less  in  powers,  less  in  attraction  —  that  I 
am  the  most  crawling,  the-  most  grovelling  of  all 
the  human  species,  and  that  there  is  no  one  who 
does  not  know  it.  Yet  the  doctors  say  I  am  not 
physically  ill,  and  I  know  that  I  am  not  mad. 
Whence  does  this  awful  misery,  this  unmeaning, 
causeless  horror  of  life  and  of  myself  come  ?  Why 
am  I  thus  afflicted  ? 

"  Of  course  I  could  find  no  answer  to  all  these 
old  questions,  which  I  had  asked  many  times  be- 
fore. But  this  time,  Bernard,  my  depression  was 
more  lasting,  more  overwhelming  than  usual.  I 
grew  terribly  afraid  of  it.  I  thought  I  might  be 
driven  to  suicide.  One  day  a  crisis  seemed  to 
come.  I  dared  no  longer  remain  alone,  so  I  put 
pn  my  hat  and  coat,  took  my  stick,  and  hurried 


216  BYE-WAYS 

out,  without  any  definite  intention.  I  walked 
along  Piccadilly,  avoiding  the  glances  of  those 
whom  I  met.  I  fancied  they  could  all  read  the 
agony,  the  degradation  of  my  soul.  I  turned  into 
Bond  Street,  and  suddenly  I  felt  a  strong  inclina- 
tion to  stop  before  a  certain  door.  I  obeyed  the 
impulse,  and  my  eyes  fell  on  a  brass  plate,  upon 
which  was  engraved  these  words :  — 

VANE. 

Clairvoyant. 
1 1    till  4  daily. 

"I  remember  I  read  them  several  times  over, 
and  even  repeated  them  in  a  whisper  to  myself. 
Why?  I  don't  know.  Then  I  turned  away,  and 
was  about  to  resume  my  walk.  But  I  could  not. 
Again  I  stopped  and  read  the  legend  on  the  brass 
plate.  On  the  right-hand  side  of  the  door  was  an 
electric  bell.  I  put  my  finger  on  it  and  pressed 
the  button  inwards.  The  door  opened,  and  I 
walked,  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  I  think,  up  a  flight 
of  narrow  stairs.  At  the  top  of  them  was  a  second 
door,  at  which  a  maidservant  was  standing. 

" 4  You  want  to  see  Mr  Vane,  sir  ? ' 

"  <  Yes.     Can  I  ? ' 

" c  If  you  will  come  in,  sir,  I  will  see.' 

"  She  showed  me  into  a  commonplace,  barely- 
furnished  little  room,  and,  after  a  short  period  of 
waiting,  summoned  me  to  another,  in  which  stood 
a  tall,  dark  youth,  dressed  in  a  gown  rathe;  like  a 


THE    FACE    OF    THE    MONK     217 

college  gown.  He  bowed  to  me,  and  I  silently 
returned  the  salutation.  The  servant  left  us.  Then 
he  said :  — 

"  c  You  wish  me  to  exert  my  powers  for  you  ?  * 

"  « Yes.' 

"'Will  you  sit  here?' 

"  He  motioned  me  to  a  seat  beside  a  small  round 
table,  sat  down  opposite  to  me,  and  took  my  hand. 
After  examining  it  through  a  glass,  and  telling  my 
character  fairly  correctly  by  the  lines  in  it,  he  laid 
the  glass  down  and  regarded  me  narrowly. 

" c  You  suffer  terribly  from  depression,'  he  said. 

"  «  That  is  true.' 

"  He  continued  to  gaze  upon  me  more  and  more 
fixedly.  At  length  he  said  :  — 

u  c  Do  you  know  that  everybody  has  a  com- 
panion ? ' 

" '  How  —  a  companion  ? ' 

"  *  Somebody  incessantly  with  them,  somebody 
they  cannot  see.' 

"  l  You  believe  in  the  theory  of  guardian  angels  ? ' 

" '  I  do  not  say  these  companions  are  always 
guardian  angels.  I  see  your  companion  now,  as  I 
look  at  you.  His  face  is  by  your  shoulder.' 

"  I  started,  and  glanced  hastily  round ;  but,  of 
course,  could  see  nothing. 

"  «  Shall  I  describe  him  ? ' 

" c  Yes,'  I  said. 

"'His  face  is  dark,  like  yours;  shaven,  like 
yours.  He  has  brown  eyes,  just  as  brown  as 


2i8  BYE-WAYS 

yours  are.      His  mouth  and  his  chin  are  firm  and 
small,  as  firm  and  small  as  yours.' 

" <  He  must  be  very  like  me.' 

" c  He  is.  But  there  is  a  difference  between 
you.' 

" c  What  is  it  ? ' 

"'His  hair  is  cut  more  closely  than  yours,  and 
part  of  it  is  shaved  off.' 

" '  He  is  a  priest,  then  ? ' 

u  c  He  wears  a  cowl.     He  is  a  monk.' 

" '  A  monk  !     But  why  does  he  come  to  me  ? ' 

"  *  I  should  say  that  he  cannot  help  it,  that  he  is 
your  spirit  in  some  former  state.  Yes  '  —  and  he 
stared  at  me  till  his  eyes  almost  mesmerised  me  — 
'you  must  have  been  a  monk  once.' 

" 1 1  —  a  monk  !  Impossible !  Even  if  I  have 
lived  on  earth  before,  it  could  never  have  been  as  a 
monk.' 

" l  How  do  you  know  that  ? ' 

" '  Because  I  am  utterly  without  superstitions, 
utterly  free  from  any  lingering  desire  for  an  ascetic 
life.  That  existence  of  silence,  of  ignorance,  of 
perpetual  prayer,  can  never  have  been  mine.' 

" '  You  cannot  tell,'  was  all  his  answer. 


II 

"WHEN  I  left  Bond  Street  that  afternoon  I  was 
full  of  disbelief.      However,  I  had  paid  my  half- 


THE   FACE    OF   THE   MONK     219 

guinea  and  escaped  from  my  own  core  of  misery 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  That  was  something. 
I  did  n't  regret  my  visit  to  this  man  Vane,  whom 
I  regarded  as  an  agreeable  charlatan.  For  a 
moment  he  had  interested  me.  For  a  moment  he 
had  helped  me  to  forget  my  useless  wretchedness. 
I  ought  to  have  been  grateful  to  him.  And,  as 
always,  my  soul  regained  its  composure  at  last. 
One  morning  I  awoke  and  said  to  myself  that  I 
was  happy.  Why  ?  I  did  not  know.  But  I  got 
up.  I  was  able  to  write  once  more.  I  was  able 
to  play.  I  felt  that  I  had  friends  who  loved  me 
and  a  career  before  me.  I  could  again  look  people 
in  the  face  without  fear.  I  could  even  feel  a  cer- 
tain delightful  conceit  of  mind  and  body.  Bernard, 
I  was  myself.  So  I  thought,  so  I  knew.  And 
yet,  as  days  went  by,  I  caught  myself  often  think- 
ing of  this  invisible,  tonsured,  and  cowled  com- 
panion of  mine,  whom  Vane  had  seen,  whom  I 
did  not  see.  Was  he  indeed  with  me?  And,  if 
so,  had  he  thoughts,  had  he  the  holy  thoughts  of 
a  spirit  that  has  renounced  the  world  and  all 
fleshly  things  ?  Did  he  still  keep  that  cloistered 
nature  which  is  at  home  with  silence,  which  as- 
pires, and  prays,  and  lives  for  possible  eternity, 
instead  of  for  certain  time  ?  Did  he  still  hold 
desolate  vigils  ?  Did  he  still  scourge  himself  along 
the  thorny  paths  of  faith  ?  And,  if  he  did,  how 
must  he  regard  me  ? 

"  I  remember  one  night  especially  how  this  last 


220  BYE-WAYS 

thought  was  with  me  in  a  dreary  house,  where  I 
sinned,  and  where  I  dissected  a  heart. 

"And  I  trembled  as  if  an  eye  was  upon  me. 
And  I  went  home. 

u  You  will  say  that  my  imagination  is  keen,  and 
that  I  gave  way  to  it.  But  wait  and  hear  the 
end. 

"  This  definite  act  of  mine  —  this,  my  first  con- 
scious renunciation  —  did  not  tend,  as  you  might 
suppose,  to  the  peace  of  my  mind.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  found  myself  angry,  perturbed,  as  I  ana- 
lysed the  cause  of  my  warfare  with  self.  I  have 
naturally  a  supreme  hatred  of  all  control.  Liberty 
is  my  fetish.  And  now  I  had  offered  a  sacrifice 
to  a  prisoning  unselfishness,  to  a  false  god  that 
binds  and  gags  its  devotees.  I  was  angry,  and  I 
violently  resumed  my  former  course.  But  now  I 
began  to  be  ceaselessly  companioned  by  uneasiness, 
by  a  furtive  cowardice  that  was  desolating.  I  felt 
that  I  was  watched,  and  by  some  one  who  suffered 
when  I  sinned,  who  shrank  and  shuddered  when  I 
followed  where  my  desires  led. 

"  It  was  the  monk. 

"  Soon  I  gave  to  him  a  most  definite  personality. 
I  endowed  him  with  a  mind  and  with  moods.  I 
imagined  not  only  a  heart  for  him,  but  a  voice, 
deep  with  a  certain  ecclesiastical  beauty,  austere, 
with  a  note  more  apt  for  denunciation  than  for 
praise.  His  face  was  my  own  face,  but  with  an 
expression  not  mine,  elevated,  almost  fanatical,  yet 


THE   FACE   OF   THE   MONK     221 

nobly  beautiful;  praying  eyes  —  and  mine  were 
only  observant ;  praying  lips  —  and  mine  were  but 
sensitively  sensual.  And  he  was  haggard  with 
abstinence,  while  I  —  was  I  not  often  haggard  with 
indulgence  ?  Yes,  his  face  was  mine,  and  not 
mine.  It  seemed  the  face  of  a  great  saint  who 
might  have  been  a  great  sinner.  Bernard,  that  is 
the  most  attractive  face  in  all  the  world.  Accus- 
toming myself  thus  to  a  thought-companion,  I  at 
length  —  for  we  men  are  so  inevitably  materialistic 
—  embodied  him,  gave  to  him  hands,  feet,  a  figure, 
all  —  as  before,  mine,  yet  not  mine,  a  sort  of 
saintly  replica  of  my  sinfulness.  For  do  not  hands, 
feet,  figure  cry  our  deeds  as  the  watchman  cries  the 
hour  in  the  night  ? 

"  So,  I  had  the  man.  There  he  stood  in  my 
vision  as  you  are  now. 

"  Yes,  he  was  there ;  but  only  when  I  sinned. 

"  When  I  worked  and  yielded  myself  up  to  the 
clear  assertion  of  my  intellect,  when  I  fought  to 
give  out  the  thoughts  that  lingered  like  reluctant 
fish  far  down  in  the  deep  pools  of  my  mind,  when 
I  wrestled  for  beauty  of  diction  and  for  nameless 
graces  of  expression,  when  I  was  the  author,  I 
could  not  see  him. 

"  But  when  I  was  the  man,  and  lived  the  fables 
that  I  was  afterwards  to  write,  then  he  was  with 
me.  And  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  one  who  is 
wasted  with  grey  grief. 

"  He  came  to  me  when  I  sinned,  as  if  by  my 


222  BYE-WAYS 

sins  I  did  him  grave  injury.  And,  allowing  my 
imagination  to  range  wildly,  as  you  will  say,  I  grew 
gradually  to  feel  as  if  each  sin  did  indeed  strike  a 
grievous  blow  upon  his  holy  nature. 

"  This  troubled  me  at  last.  I  found  myself  con- 
tinually brooding  over  the  strange  idea.  I  was 
aware  that  if  my  friends  could  know  I  entertained 
it,  they  would  think  me  mad.  And  yet  I  often 
fancied  that  thought  moved  me  in  the  direction  of 
a  sanity  more  perfect,  more  desirable  than  my 
sanity  of  self-indulgence.  Sometimes  even  I  said 
to  myself  that  I  would  reorganise  my  life,  that  I 
would  be  different  from  what  I  had  been.  And 
then,  again,  I  laughed  at  my  folly  of  the  imagina- 
tion, and  cursed  that  clairvoyant  of  Bond  Street, 
who  made  a  living  by  trading  upon  the  latent 
imbecility  of  human  nature.  Yet,  the  desire  of 
change,  of  soul-transformation,  came  and  lingered, 
and  the  vision  of  the  monk's  worn  young  face 
was  often  with  me.  And  whenever,  in  my  waking 
dreams,  I  looked  upon  it,  I  felt  that  a  time  might 
come  when  I  could  pray  and  weep  for  the  wild 
catalogue  of  my  many  sins. 

"  Bernard,  at  last  the  day  came  when  I  left 
England.  I  had  long  wished  to  travel.  I  had 
grown  tired  of  the  hum  of  literary  cliques,  and  the 
jargon  of  that  deadly  parasite  called  '  modernity.' 
Praise  fainted,  and  lay  like  a  corpse  before  my 
mind.  I  was  sick  of  gaiety.  It  seemed  to  me 


THE   FACE   OF   THE   MONK     223 

that  London  was  stifling  my  powers,  narrowing 
my  outlook,  barring  out  real  life  from  me  with  its 
moods  and  its  fashions,  and  its  idols  of  the  hour, 
and  its  heroes  of  a  day,  who  are  the  traitors  of  the 
day's  night. 

"  So  I  went  away. 

"  And  now  I  come  to  the  part  of  my  story  that 
you  may  find  it  hard  to  believe.  Yet  it  is  true. 

"  One  day,  in  my  wanderings,  I  came  to  a 
monastery.  I  remember  the  day  well.  It  was  an 
afternoon  of  early  winter,  and  I  was  en  route  to  a 
warm  climate.  But  to  gain  my  climate,  and 
snatch  a  vivid  contrast  such  as  I  love,  I  toiled  over 
a  gaunt  and  dreary  pass,  presided  over  by  heavy, 
beetling-browed  mountains.  I  rode  upon  a  mule, 
attended  only  by  my  manservant  and  by  a  taciturn 
guide  who  led  a  baggage-mule.  Slowly  we  wound, 
by  thin  paths,  among  the  desolate  crags,  which 
sprang  to  sight  in  crowds  at  each  turn  of  the  way, 
pressing  upon  us,  like  dead  faces  of  Nature,  the 
corpses  of  things  we  call  inanimate,  but  which  had 
surely  once  lived.  For  the  earth  is  alive,  and  gives 
life.  But  these  mountains  were  now  utterly  dead. 
These  grey,  petrified  countenances  of  the  hills  sub- 
dued my  soul.  The  pattering  shuffle  of  the  mules 
woke  an  occasional  echo,  and  even  an  echo  I  hated. 
For  the  environing  silence  was  immense,  and  I 
wished  to  steep  myself  in  it.  As  we  still  ascended, 
in  the  waste  winter  afternoon,  towards  the  hour  of 
twilight,  snow  —  the  first  snow  of  the  season  — 


224  BYE-WAYS 

began  to  fall.  I  watched  the  white  vision  of  the 
flakes  against  the  grey  vision  of  the  crags,  and  I 
thought  that  this  path,  which  I  had  chosen  as  my 
road  to  Summer,  was  like  the  path  by  which  holy 
men  slowly  gain  Paradise,  treading  difficult  ways 
through  life  that  they  may  attain  at  last  those 
eternal  roses  which  bloom  beyond  the  granite  and 
the  snows.  Up  and  up  I  rode,  into  the  clouds  and 
the  night,  into  the  veil  of  the  world,  into  the  icy 
winds  of  the  heights.  An  eagle  screamed  above 
my  head,  poised  like  a  black  shadow  in  the  opaque 
gloom.  That  flying  life  was  the  only  life  in  this 
waste. 

"  And  then  my  mule,  edging  ever  to  the  preci- 
pice as  a  man  to  his  fate,  sidled  round  a  promon- 
tory of  rock  and  set  its  feet  in  snow.  For  we  had 
passed  the  snow-line.  And  upon  the  snow  lay 
thin  spears  of  yellow  light.  They  streamed  from 
the  lattices  of  the  monastery  which  crowns  the  very 
summit  of  the  pass. 


Ill 

"  AT  this  monastery  I  was  to  spend  the  night. 
The  good  monks  entertain  all  travellers,  and  in 
summer-time  their  hospitalities  are  lavishly  exer- 
cised. But  in  winter,  wanderers  are  few,  and 
these  holy  men  are  left  almost  undisturbed  in  their 
meditative  solitudes.  My  mule  paused  upon  a 


THE   FACE   OF   THE   MONK     225 

rocky  plateau  before  the  door  of  the  narrow  grey 
building.  The  guide  struck  upon  the  heavy  wood. 
After  a  while  we  were  admitted  by  a  robed  figure, 
who  greeted  us  kindly  and  made  us  welcome. 
Within,  the  place  was  bare  and  poor  enough,  but 
scrupulously  clean.  I  was  led  through  long,  broad, 
and  bitterly  cold  corridors  to  a  big  chamber  in 
which  I  was  to  pass  the  night.  Here  were  ranged 
in  a  row  four  large  beds  with  white  curtains.  I 
occupied  one  bed,  my  servant  another.  The  rest 
were  untenanted.  The  walls  were  lined  with 
light  wood.  The  wooden  floor  was  uncarpeted. 
I  threw  open  the  narrow  window.  Dimly  I  could 
see  a  mountain  of  rocks,  on  which  snow  lay  in 
patches,  towering  up  into  the  clouds  in  front  of 
me.  And  to  the  left  there  was  a  glimmer  of  water. 
On  the  morrow,  by  that  water,  I  should  ride  down 
into  the  land  of  flowers  to  which  I  was  bound. 
Till  then  I  would  allow  my  imagination  to  luxuri- 
ate in  the  bleak  romance  of  this  wild  home  of 
prayer.  The  pathos  of  the  night,  shivering  in  the 
snow,  and  of  this  brotherhood  of  aspiring  souls, 
detached  from  the  excitement  of  the  world  for 
ever,  seeking  restlessly  their  final  salvation  day  by 
day,  night  by  night,  in  clouds  of  mountain  vapour 
and  sanctified  incense,  entered  into  my  soul.  And 
I  thought  of  that  imagined  companion  of  mine. 
If  he  were  with  me  now,  surely  he  would  feel  that 
he  had  led  me  to  his  home  at  length.  Surely  he 
would  secretly  long  to  remain  here. 
»5 


226  BYE-WAYS 

"I  smiled,  as  I  said  to  myself — 'Monk,  to- 
morrow, if,  indeed,  you  are  fated  to  be  my  eternal 
attendant,  you  must  come  with  me  from  this  cold 
station  of  the  cross  down  into  the  sunshine,  where 
the  blood  of  men  is  hot,  where  passions  sing 
among  the  vineyards,  where  the  battle  is  not  of 
souls  but  of  flowers.  To-morrow  you  must  come 
with  me.  But  to-night  be  at  peace  ! ' 

"  And  I  smiled  to  myself  again  as  I  fancied  that 
my  visionary  companion  was  glad. 

"  Then  I  went  down  into  the  refectory. 

"  That  night,  before  I  retired  to  my  room  of 
the  four  beds,  I  asked  if  I  might  go  into  the  chapel 
of  the  monastery.  My  request  was  granted.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  curious  sensation  which 
overtook  me  as  my  guide  led  me  down  some  steps 
past  a  dim,  little,  old,  painted  window  set  in  the 
wall,  to  the  chapel.  That  there  should  be  a 
church  here,  that  the  deep  tones  of  an  organ 
should  ever  sound  among  these  rocks  and  clouds, 
that  the  Host  should  be  elevated  and  the  censer 
swung,  and  litanies  and  masses  be  chanted  amid 
these  everlasting  snows,  all  this  was  wonderful  and 
quickening  to  me.  When  we  reached  the  chapel, 
I  begged  my  kind  guide  to  leave  me  for  a  while. 
I  longed  to  meditate  alone.  He  left  me,  and  in- 
stinctively I  sank  down  upon  my  knees. 

"  I  could  just  hear  the  keening  of  the  wind  out- 
side. A  dim  light  glimmered  near  the  altar,  and 
in  one  of  the  oaken  stalls  I  saw  a  bent  form  pray- 


THE   FACE   OF   THE    MONK      227 

ing.  I  knelt  a  long  time.  I  did  not  pray.  At 
first  I  scarcely  thought  definitely.  Only,  I  received 
into  my  heart  the  strange,  indelible  impression  of 
this  wonderful  place;  and,  as  I  knelt,  my  eyes 
were  ever  upon  that  dark  praying  figure  near  to 
me.  By  degrees  I  imagined  that  a  wave  of  sym- 
pathy flowed  from  it  to  me,  that  in  this  monk's 
devotions  my  name  was  not  forgotten. 

"  '  What  absurd  tricks  our  imaginations  can  play 
us ! '  you  will  say. 

"  I  grew  to  believe  that  he  prayed  for  me,  there, 
under  the  dim  light  from  the  tall  tapers. 

"What  blessing  did  he  ask  on  me?  I  could 
not  tell;  but  I  longed  that  his  prayer  might  be 
granted. 

"And  then,  Bernard,  at  last  he  rose.  He  lifted 
his  face  from  his  hands  and  stood  up.  Something 
in  his  figure  seemed  so  strangely  familiar  to  me,  so 
strangely  that,  on  a  sudden,  I  longed,  I  craved  to 
see  his  face. 

"  He  seemed  about  to  retreat  through  a  side 
door  near  to  the  altar;  then  he  paused,  appeared  to 
hesitate,  then  came  down  the  chapel  towards  me. 
As  he  drew  near  to  me  —  I  scarcely  knew  why  — 
but  I  hid  my  face  deep  in  my  hands,  with  -a  dread- 
ful sense  of  overwhelming  guilt  which  dyed  my 
cheeks  with  blood.  I  shrank  —  I  cowered.  I 
trembled  and  was  afraid.  Then  I  felt  a  gentle 
touch  on  my  shoulder.  I  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  the  monk. 


228  BYE-WAYS 

"Bernard,  it  was  the  face  of  my  invisible  com- 
panion —  it  was  my  own  face. 

u  The  monk  looked  down  into  my  eyes  search- 
ingly.  He  recoiled. 

"  c  Mon  demon  !  '  he  whispered  in  .  French. 
1  Mon  demon  !  ' 

"  For  a  moment  he  stood  still,  like  one  appalled. 
Then  he  turned  and  abruptly  quitted  the  chapel. 

"  I  started  up  to  follow  him,  but  something  held 
me  back.  I  let  him  go,  and  I  listened  to  hear  if 
his  tread  sounded  upon  the  chapel  floor  as  a  human 
footstep,  if  his  robe  rustled  as  he  went. 

"  Yes.  Then  he  was,  indeed,  a  living  man,  and 
it  was  a  human  voice  which  had  reached  my  ears, 
not  a  voice  of  imagination.  He  was  a  living  man, 
this  double  of  my  body,  this  antagonist  of  my  soul, 
this  being  who  called  me  demon,  who  fled  from 
me,  who,  doubtless,  hated  me.  He  was  a  living 
man. 

"  I  could  not  sleep  that  night.  This  encounter 
troubled  me.  I  felt  that  it  had  a  meaning  for  me 
which  I  must  discover,  that  it  was  not  chance 
which  had  led  me  to  take  this  cold  road  to  the 
sunshine.  Something  had  bound  me  with  an  in- 
visible thread,  and  led  me  up  here  into  the  clouds, 
where  already  I  —  or  the  likeness  of  me  —  dwelt, 
perhaps  had  been  dwelling  for  many  years.  I  had 
looked  upon  my  living  wraith,  and  my  living  wraith 
had  called  me  demon. 

"  How  could  I  sleep  ? 


THE   FACE    OF   THE    MONK     229 

"  Very  early  I  got  up.  The  dawn  was  bitterly 
cold,  but  the  snow  had  ceased,  though  a  coating 
of  ice  covered  the  little  lake.  How  delicate  was 
the  dawn  here  !  The  gathering,  growing  light  fell 
upon  the  rocks,  upon  the  snow,  upon  the  ice  of 
the  lake,  upon  the  slate  walls  of  the  monastery. 
And  upon  each  it  lay  with  a  pretty  purity,  a  thin 
refinement,  an  austerity  such  as  I  had  never  seen 
before.  So,  even  Nature,  it  seemed,  was  purged 
by  the  continual  prayers  of  these  holy  men.  She, 
too,  like  men,  has  her  lusts,  and  her  hot  passions, 
and  her  wrath  of  warfare.  She,  too,  like  men,  can 
be  edified  and  tended  into  grace.  Nature  among 
these  heights  was  a  virgin,  not  a  wanton,  a  fit  com- 
panion for  those  who  are  dedicated  to  virginity. 

"  I  dressed  by  the  window,  and  went  out  to  see 
the  entrance  of  the  morning.  There  was  nobody 
about.  I  had  to  find  my  own  way.  But  when  I 
had  gained  the  refectory,  I  saw  a  monk  standing 
by  the  door. 

"  It  was  my  wraith  waiting  for  me. 

"  Silently  he  went  before  me  to  the  great  door 
of  the  building.  He  opened  it,  and  we  stepped 
out  upon  the  rocky  plateau  on  which  the  snow 
lay  thickly.  He  closed  the  door  behind  us,  and 
motioned  me  to  attend  him  among  the  rocks  till 
we  were  out  of  sight  of  the  monastery.  Then  he 
stopped,  and  we  faced  one  another,  still  without  a 
word,  the  grey  light  of  the  wintry  dawn  clothing 
us  so  wearily,  so  plaintively. 


230  BYE-WAYS 

"  We  gazed  at  each  other,  dark  face  to  dark 
face,  brown  eyes  to  brown  eyes.  The  monk's 
pale  hands,  my  hands,  were  clenched.  The 
monk's  strong  lips,  my  lips,  were  set.  The  two 
souls  looked  upon  each  other,  there,  in  the  dawn. 

"  And  then  at  last  he  spoke  in  French,  and  with 
the  beautiful  voice  I  knew. 

'  Whence  have  you  come  ? '  he  said. 

"  '  From  England,  father.' 

"  '  From  England  ?  Then  you  live !  you  live. 
You  are  a  man,  as  I  am!  And  I  have  believed 
you  to  be  a  spirit,  some  strange  spirit  of  myself, 
lost  to  my  control,  interrupting  my  prayers  with 
your  cries,  interrupting  my  sleep  with  your  desires. 
You  are  a  man  like  myself  ? ' 

"  He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  touched  mine. 

"'Yes;  it  is  indeed  so,'  he  murmured. 

"  '  And  you,'  I  said  in  my  turn,  '  are  no  spirit. 
Yet,  I,  too,  believed  you  to  be  a  wraith  of  myself, 
interrupting  my  sins  with  your  sorrow,  interrupting 
my  desires  with  your  prayers.  I  have  seen  you. 
I  have  imagined  you.  And  now  I  find  you  live. 
What  does  it  mean?  For  we  are  as  one  and  yet 
not  as  one.' 

'  We  are  as  two  halves  of  a  strangely-mingled 
whole/  he  answered.  '  Do  you  know  what  you 
have  done  to  me?  ' 

"'No,  father.' 

'  Listen/  he  said.  '  When  a  boy  I  dedicated 
myself  to  God.  Early,  early  I  dedicated  myself, 


THE   FACE   OF   THE    MONK     231 

so  that  I  might  never  know  sin.  For  I  had  heard 
that  the  charm  of  sin  is  so  great  and  so  terrible 
that,  once  it  is  known,  once  it  is  felt,  it  can  never 
be  forgotten.  And  so  it  can  make  the  holiest  life 
hideous  with  its  memories.  It  can  intrude  into 
the  very  sanctuary  like  a  ghost,  and  murmur  its 
music  with  the  midnight  mass.  Even  at  the  eleva- 
tion of  the  Host  will  it  be  present,  and  stir  the 
heart  of  the  officiator  to  longing  so  keen  that  it 
is  like  the  Agony  of  the  Garden,  the  Agony  of 
Christ.  There  are  monks  here  who  weep  because 
they  dare  not  sin,  who  rage  secretly  like  beasts  — 
because  they  will  not  sin.' 

"  He  paused.  The  grey  light  grew  over  the 
mountains. 

" 4  Knowing  this,  I  resolved  that  I  would  never 
know  sin,  lest  I,  too,  should  suffer  so  horribly.  I 
threw  myself  at  once  into  the  arms  of  God.  Yet 
I  have  suffered  —  how  I  have  suffered  ! ' 

u  His  face  was  contorted,  and  his  lips  worked. 
I  stood  as  if  under  a  spell,  my  eyes  upon  his  face. 
I  had  only  the  desire  to  hear  him.  He  went  on, 
speaking  now  in  a  voice  roughened  by  emotion  : 

"  i  For  I  became  like  these  monks.  You  '  — 
and  he  pointed  at  me  with  outstretched  fingers  — 
4  you,  my  wraith,  made  in  my  very  likeness,  were 
surely  born  when  I  was  born,  to  torment  me. 
For,  while  I  have  prayed,  I  have  been  conscious 
of  your  neglect  of  prayer  as  if  it  were  my  own. 
When  I  have  believed,  I  have  been  conscious  of 


232  BYE-WAYS 

your  unbelief  as  if  it  were  my  own.  Whatever  I 
have  feebly  tried  to  do  for  God,  has  been  marred 
and  defaced  by  all  that  you  have  left  undone.  I  have 
wrestled  with  you  ;  I  have  tried  to  hold  you  back ;  I 
have  tried  to  lead  you  with  me  where  I  want  to  go, 
where  I  must  go.  All  these  years  I  have  tried,  all 
these  years  I  have  striven.  But  it  has  seemed  as  if 
God  did  not  choose  it.  When  you  have  been  sin- 
ning, I  have  been  agonising.  I  have  lain  upon  the 
floor  of  my  cell  in  the  night,  and  I  have  torn  at 
my  evil  heart.  For — sometimes  —  I  have  longed 
—  how  I  have  longed  !  — to  sin  your  sin.' 

"  He  crossed  himself.  Sudden  tears  sprang  into 
his  eyes. 

" c  I  have  called  you  my  demon,'  he  cried.  l  But 
you  are  my  cross.  Oh,  brother,  will  you  not  be 
my  crown  ? ' 

"  His  eyes,  shadowed  with  tears,  gazed  down 
into  mine.  Bernard,  in  that  moment,  I  understood 
all  —  my  depression,  my  unreasoning  despair,  the 
fancied  hatred  of  others,  even  my  few  good  im- 
pulses, all  came  from  him,  from  this  living  holy 
wraith  of  my  evil  self. 

"  l  Will  you  not  be  my  crown  ? '  he  said. 

"  Bernard,  there,  in  the  snow,  I  fell  at  his  feet. 
I  confessed  to  him.  I  received  his  absolution. 

"  And,  as  the  light  of  the  dawn  grew  strong 
upon  the  mountains,  he,  my  other  self,  my  wraith, 
blessed  me." 


THE   FACE    OF   THE    MONK     233 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  us.  Then 
I  said :  — 

"  And  now  ?  " 

"  And  now  you  know  why  I  have  changed. 
That  day,  as  I  went  down  into  the  land  of  the 
sunshine,  I  made  a  vow." 

"  A  vow  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  to  be  his  crown,  not  his  cross.  I  soon 
returned  to  England.  At  first  I  was  happy,  and 
then  one  day  my  old  evil  nature  came  upon  me 
like  a  giant.  I  fell  again  into  sin,  and,  even  as  I 
sinned,  I  saw  his  face  looking  into  mine,  Bernard, 
pale,  pale  to  the  lips,  and  with  eyes  —  such  sad 
eyes  of  reproach  !  Then  I  thought  I  was  not  fit 
to  live,  and  I  tried  to  kill  myself.  They  saved  me, 
and  brought  me  here." 

"  Yes  ;  and  now,  Hubert  ?  " 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I  am  so  happy.  God  surely 
placed  me  here  where  I  cannot  sin.  The  days 
pass  and  the  nights,  and  they  are  stainless.  And 
he  —  he  comes  by  night  and  blesses  me.  I  live 
for  him  now,  and  see  always  the  grey  walls  of  his 
monastery,  his  face  which  shall,  at  last,  be  com- 
pletely mine." 

"  Good-bye,"  the  doctor  said  to  me  as  I  got  into 
the  carriage  to  drive  back  to  the  station.  "Yes, 
he  is  perfectly  happy,  happier  in  his  mania,  I 
believe,  than  you  or  I  in  our  sanity." 

I  drove  awav  from  that  huge  home  of  madness, 


234 


BYE-WAYS 


set  in  the  midst  of  lovely  gardens  in  a  smiling 
landscape,  and  I  pondered  those  last  words  of  the 
doctor's  :  — 

"  You  and  I  —  in  our  sanity." 

And,  thinking  of  the  peace  that  lay  on  Hubert's 
face,  I  compared  the  so-called  mad  of  the  world 
with  the  so-called  sane  —  and  wondered. 


THE    MAN   WHO   INTERVENED 


THE   MAN   WHO   INTERVENED 


THE  atmosphere  of  the  room  in  which  Sergius 
Blake  was  sitting  seemed  to  him  strange  and 
cold.  As  he  looked  round  it,  he  could  imagine 
that  a  light  mist  invaded  it  stealthily,  like  miasma 
rising  from  some  sinister  marsh.  There  was  surely 
a  cloud  about  the  electric  light  that  gleamed  in 
the  ceiling,  a  cloud  sweeping  in  feathery,  white 
flakes  across  the  faces  of  the  pictures  upon  the 
wall.  Even  the  familiar  furniture  seemed  to  loom 
out  faintly,  with  a  gaunt  and  grotesque  aspect, 
from  shadows  less  real,  yet  more  fearful,  than  any 
living  form  could  be. 

Sergius  stared  round  him  slowly,  pressing  his 
strong  lips  together.  When  he  concentrated  his 
gaze  upon  any  one  thing  —  a  table,  a  sofa,  a  chair 
—  the  cloud  faded,  and  the  object  stood  out  clearly 
before  his  eyes.  Yet  always  the  rest  of  the  room 
seemed  to  lie  in  mist  and  in  shadows.  He  knew 
that  this  dim  atmosphere  did  not  really  exist,  that 
it  was  projected  by  his  mind.  Yet  it  troubled 
him,  and  added  a  dull  horror  to  his  thoughts,  which 
moved  again  and  again,  in  persistent  promenade, 
round  one  idea. 


238  BYE-WAYS 

The  hour  was  seven  o'clock  of  an  autumn 
night.  Darkness  lay  over  London,  and  rain  made 
a  furtive  music  on  roofs  and  pavements.  Sergius 
Blake  listened  to  the  drops  upon  the  panes  of  his 
windows.  They  seemed  to  beckon  him  forth,  to 
tell  him  that  it  was  time  to  exchange  thought  for 
action.  He  had  come  to  a  definite  and  tremen- 
dous resolution.  He  must  now  carry  it  out. 

He  got  up  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  with  the 
movement  the  mist  seemed  to  gather  itself  together 
in  the  room  and  to  disappear.  It  passed  away, 
evaporating  among  the  pictures  and  ornaments, 
the  prayer-rugs  and  divans.  A  clearness  and  an 
insight  came  to  Sergius.  He  stood  still  by  the 
piano,  on  which  he  rested  one  hand  lightly,  and 
listened.  The  rain-drops  pattered  close  by.  Be- 
yond them  rose  the  dull  music  of  the  evening 
traffic  of  New  Bond  Street,  in  which  thoroughfare 
he  lived.  As  he  stood  thus  at  attention,  his  young 
and  handsome  face  seemed  carved  in  stone.  His 
lips  were  set  in  a  hard  and  straight  line.  His 
dark-grey  eyes  stared,  like  eyes  in  a  photograph. 
The  muscles  of  his  long-fingered  hands  were  tense 
and  knotted.  He  was  in  evening  dress,  and  had 
been  engaged  to  dine  in  Curzon  Street ;  but  he 
had  written  a  hasty  note  to  say  he  was  ill  and 
could  not  come.  Another  appointment  claimed 
him.  He  had  made  it  for  himself. 

Presently,  lifting  his  hand  from  the  piano,  he 
took  up  a  small  leather  case  from  a  table  that 


THE    A4AN   WHO    INTERVENED     239 

stood  near,  opened  it,  and  drew  out  a  revolver. 
He  examined  it  carefully.  Two  chambers  were 
loaded.  They  would  be  enough.  He  put  on  his 
long  overcoat,  and  slipped  the  revolver  into  his 
left  breast  pocket.  His  heart  could  beat  against 
it  there. 

Each  time  his  heart  pulsed,  Sergius  seemed  to 
hear  the  silence  of  another  heart. 

And  now,  though  his  mind  was  quite  clear,  and 
the  mists  and  shadows  had  slunk  away,  his  familiar 
room  looked  very  peculiar  to  him.  The  very  chair 
in  which  he  generally  sat  wore  the  aspect  of  a 
stranger.  Was  the  wall  paper  really  blue  ?  Ser- 
gius went  close  up  to  it  and  examined  it  narrowly, 
and  then  he  drew  back  and  laughed  softly,  like  a 
child.  In  the  sound  of  his  laugh  irresponsibility 
chimed.  "  What  is  the  cab  fare  to  Phillimore 
Place,  Kensington  ?  "  he  thought,  searching  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  "  Half  a  crown  ?  "  He  put 
the  coin  carefully  in  the  ticket  pocket  of  his  over- 
coat, buttoned  the  coat  up  slowly,  took  his  hat  and 
stick,  and  drew  on  a  pair  of  lavender  gloves.  Just 
then  a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  him  and  he 
glanced  down  at  his  hands. 

"  Lavender  gloves  for  such  a  deed  !  "  he  mur- 
mured. For  a  moment  he  paused  irresolute,  even 
partially  unbuttoned  them.  But  then  he  smiled 
and  shook  his  head.  In  some  way  the  gloves 
would  not  be  wholly  inappropriate.  Sergius  cast 
one  final  glance  round  the  room. 


240  BYE-WAYS 

"  When  I  stand  here  again,"  he  said  aloud,  "  I 
shall  be  a  criminal  —  a  criminal!" 

He  repeated  the  last  word,  as  if  trying  thor- 
oughly to  realise  its  meaning. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  swiftly  and  went  out 
on  to  the  staircase. 

Just  as  he  was  putting  a  hasty  foot  upon  the  first 
stair,  a  man  out  in  the  street  touched  his  electric 
bell.  Its  thin  tingling  cry  made  Sergius  start  and 
hesitate.  In  the  semi-twilight  he  waited,  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets,  his  silk  hat  tilted  slightly  over 
his  eyes.  The  porter  tramped  along  the  passage 
below.  The  hall  door  opened,  and  a  deep  and 
strong  voice  asked,  rather  anxiously  and  breath- 
lessly :  — 

"  Is  Mr  Blake  at  home  ? " 

"  I  rather  think  he  's  gone  out,  sir." 

"  No  —  surely  —  how  long  ago  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.      He  may  be  in.      I  '11  see." 

"Do — do  —  quickly.  If  he's  in,  say  I  must 
see  him  —  Mr  Endover.  But  you  know  my 
name." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  porter,  mounting  the  stone  staircase,  sud- 
denly came  upon  Sergius  standing  there  like  a 
stone  figure. 

"  Lord,  sir  !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  You  give  me  a 
start !  "  His  voice  was  loud  from  astonishment. 

"  Hush  !  "  Sergius  whispered.  "  Go  down  at 
once  and  say  that  I  've  gone  out !  " 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     241 

The  man  turned  to  obey,  but  Anthony  Endover 
was  half-way  up  the  stairs. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  met  the 
porter. 

He  had  passed  him  in  an  instant  and  arrived  at 
the  place  where  Sergius  was  standing. 

"  Sergius,"  he  cried,  and  there  was  a  great  music 
of  relief  in  his  voice.  "  Hulloa  !  Now  you  're 
not  going  out." 

"  Yes,  I  am,  Anthony." 

"  But  I  want  to  talk  to  you  tremendously. 
Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  dine  with  the  Venables  in  Curzon  Street." 

"  I  met  young  Venables  just  now,  and  he  said 
you  'd  written  that  you  were  ill  and  could  n't  come. 
He  asked  me  to  fill  your  place." 

Sergius  muttered  a  "  Damn !  "  under  his  breath. 

"  Well,  come  in  for  a  minute,"  he  said,  attempt- 
ing no  excuse. 

He  turned  round  slowly  and  re-entered  his  flat, 
followed  by  Endover. 


II 

FOR  some  years  Endover  had  been  Sergius  Blake's 
close  friend.  They  had  left  Eton  at  the  same 
time  ;  had  been  at  Oxford  together.  Their  inti- 
macy, born  in  the  playing  fields,  grew  out  of  its 
cricket  and  football  stage  as  their  minds  developed, 
16 


242  BYE-WAYS 

and  the  world  of  thought  opened  like  a  holy  of 
holies  —  beyond  the  world  of  action.  They  both 
passed  behind  the  veil,  but  Anthony  went  farther 
than  Sergius.  Yet  this  slight  separation  did  not 
lead  to  alienation,  but  merely  caused  the  admiration 
of  Sergius  for  his  friend  to  be  mingled  with  respect. 
He  looked  up  to  Anthony.  Recognising  that  his 
friend's  mind  was  more  thoughtful  than  his  own, 
while  his  passions  were  far  stronger  than  Anthony's, 
he  grew  to  lean  upon  Anthony,  to  claim  his  advice 
sometimes,  to  follow  it  often.  Anthony  was  his 
mentor,  and  thought  he  knew  instinctively  all  the 
workings  of  Sergius'  mind  and  all  the  possibilities 
of  his  nature.  The  mother  of  Sergius  was  a  Rus- 
sian and  a  great  heiress.  Soon  after  he  left  Ox- 
ford, she  died.  His  father  had  been  killed  by  an 
accident  when  he  was  a  child.  So  he  was  rich, 
free,  young,  in  London,  with  no  one  to  look  after 
him,  until  Anthony  Endover,  who  had  meanwhile 
taken  orders,  was  attached  as  fourth  —  or  fifth  — 
curate  to  a  smart  West  End  church,  and  came 
to  live  in  lodgings  in  George  Street,  Hanover 
Square. 

Then,  as  Sergius  laughingly  said,  he  had  a  father 
confessor  on  the  premises.  Yet  to-night  he  had 
bidden  his  porter  to  tell  a  lie  in  order  to  keep  his 
father  confessor  out.  The  lie  had  been  vain. 
Sergius  led  the  way  morosely  into  his  drawing- 
room,  and  turned  on  the  light.  Anthony  walked  up 
to  the  fire,  and  stretched  his  tall  athletic  figure  in 


THE  MAN  WHO  INTERVENED    243 

its  long  ebon  coat.  His  firm  throat  rose  out  of  a 
jam-pot  collar,  but  his  thin,  strongly-marked  face 
rather  suggested  an  intellectual  Hercules  than  a 
Mayfair  parson,  and  neither  his  voice  nor  his 
manner  was  tinged  with  what  so  many  people 
consider  the  true  clericalism. 

For  all  that  he  was  a  splendid  curate,  as  his 
rector  very  well  knew. 

Now  he  stood  by  the  fire  for  a  minute  in  silence, 
while  Sergius  moved  uneasily  about  the  room. 
Presently  Anthony  turned  round. 

"  It 's  beastly  wet,"  he  said  in  a  melodious  ring- 
ing voice.  "  The  black  dog  is  on  me  to-night, 
Sergius." 

"Oh!" 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  out,  really,"  Anthony 
continued,  looking  narrowly  at  his  friend's  curi- 
ously rigid  face. 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Not  to  Curzon  Street.  They  Ve  filled  up 
your  place.  I  told  Venables  to  ask  Hugh  Graham. 
I  knew  he  was  disengaged  to-night.  Besides  — 
you  're  seedy." 

Sergius  frowned. 

"  I  'm  all  right  again  now,"  he  said  coldly,  "  and 
I  particularly  wished  to  go.  You  need  n't  have 
been  so  deuced  anxious  to  make  the  number  right." 

"  Well,  it 's  done  now.  And  I  can  't  say  I  'm 
sorry,  because  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  I 
say,  Serge,  take  off  those  lavender  gloves,  pull  off 


244  BYE-WAYS 

your  coat,  let 's  send  out  for  some  dinner,  and  have 
a  comfortable  evening  together  in  here.  I  've  had 
a  hard  day's  work,  and  I  want  a  rest." 

11 1  must  go  out  presently." 

"  After  dinner  then." 

"  Before  ten  o'clock." 

"  Say  eleven." 

"  No  —  that 's  too  late." 

A  violent,  though  fleeting  expression  of  anxiety 
crossed  Endover's  face.  Then,  with  a  smile,  he 
said  :  — 

"  All  right.  Shall  I  ring  the  bell  and  order 
some  dinner  to  be  sent  in  from  Gallon's  ?  " 

"  If  you  like.     I  'm  not  hungry." 

"  I  am." 

Anthony  summoned  the  servant  and  gave  the 
order.  Then  he  turned  again  to  Sergius. 

"  Here,  I  '11  help  you  off  with  your  coat,"  he  said. 

But  Sergius  moved  away. 

"  No  thanks,  I  '11  do  it.  There  are  some  cigar- 
ettes on  the  mantelpiece." 

Anthony  went  to  get  one.  As  he  was  taking  it, 
he  looked  into  the  mirror  over  the  fireplace,  and 
saw  Sergius  —  while  removing  his  overcoat  — 
transfer  something  from  it  to  the  left  breast 
pocket  of  his  evening  coat. 

He  wanted  still  to  feel  his  heart  beat  against 
that  tiny  weapon,  still  to  hear  —  with  each  pulse 
of  his  own  heart — the  silence,  not  yet  alive,  but 
so  soon  to  be  alive,  of  that  other  heart. 


THE    MAN    WHO    INTERVENED     245 

And,  as  Anthony  glanced  into  the  mirror,  he 
said  to  himself,  "  I  was  right  !  " 

He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  glass  and  lit  his 
cigarette.  Sergius  joined  him. 

"  I  'm  in  the  blues  to-night,"  Anthony  said,  puff- 
ing at  his  cigarette. 

"  Are  you  ?  " 

"Yes  —  been  down  in  the  East  End.  The 
misery  there  is  ghastly." 

"  It 's  just  as  bad  in  the  West  End,  only  dif- 
ferent in  kind.  You  're  smoking  your  cigarette  all 
down  one  side." 

Anthony  took  it  out  of  his  mouth  and  threw  it 
into  the  grate.  He  lit  two  or  three  matches,  but 
held  them  so  badly  that  they  went  out  before  he 
could  ignite  another  cigarette.  At  last,  inwardly 
cursing  his  nerves  that  made  his  hasty  actions  be- 
lie the  determined  calm  of  his  face,  he  dropped  the 
cigarette. 

"  I  don  't  think  I  '11  smoke  before  dinner,"  he 
said.  "  Ah,  here  it  is.  And  wine  —  champagne 
—  that 's  good  for  you  !  " 

"I  shan't  drink  it.      I  hate  to  drink  alone." 

"  You  shan't  drink  alone  then." 

"  What  d'  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  '11  drink  with  you." 

"  But  you  're  a  teetotaller." 

"  I  don't  care  to-night." 

Anthony  spoke  briefly  and  firmly.  Sergius  was 
amazed. 


246  BYE-WAYS 

"What!"  he  said.  "You're  going  to  break 
your  vow?  You  a  parson!" 

"  Sometimes  salvation  lies  in  the  breaking  of  a 
vow,"  Anthony  answered  as  they  sat  down. 
"  Have  you  never  registered  a  silent  vow?" 

Sergius  looked  at  him  hard  in  the  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  and  in  his  voice  there  was  the 
hint  of  a  thrilling  note.  "  But  I  shan't  —  I 
should  n't  break  it." 

"  I  Ve  known  a  soul  saved  alive  by  the  breaking 
of  a  vow,"  Anthony  answered.  "  Give  me  some 
champagne." 

Sergius  —  wondering,  as  much  as  the  condition  of 
his  mind,  possessed  by  one  idea,  would  allow  —  filled 
his  friend's  glass.  Anthony  began  to  eat,  with  a  well- 
assumed  hunger.  Sergius  scarcely  touched  food, 
but  drank  a  good  deal  of  wine.  The  hands  of  the 
big  oaken-cased  clock  that  stood  in  a  far  corner  of 
the  room  crawled  slowly  upon  their  round,  recurring 
tour.  Anthony's  eyes  were  often  upon  them,  then 
moved  with  a  swift  directness  that  was  akin  to 
passion  to  the  face  of  Sergius,  which  was  always 
strangely  rigid,  like  the  painted  face  of  a  mask. 

"  I  sat  by  a  woman  to-day,"  he  said  presently, 
"  sat  by  her  in  an  attic  that  looked  on  to  a  narrow 
street  full  of  rain,  and  watched  her  die." 

"This  morning?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  now  she  's  been  out  of  the  world  seven  or 
eight  hours.  Lucky  woman !  " 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     247 

"  Ah,  Sergius,  but  the  mischief,  the  horror  of  it 
was  that  she  was  n't  ready  to  go,  not  a  bit  ready." 

Sergius  suddenly  smiled,  a  straight,  glaring  smile, 
over  the  sparkling  champagne  that  he  was  lifting 
to  his  lips. 

"  Yes  ;  it 's  devilish  bad  for  a  woman  or  a  — 
man  to  be  shot  into  another  world  before  they  're 
prepared,"  he  said.  "It  must  be  —  devilish  bad." 

"And  how  can  we  know  that  any  one  is 
thoroughly  prepared  ? " 

Sergius'  smile  developed  into  a  short  laugh. 

"  It 's  easier  to  be  certain  who  is  n't  than  who 
is,"  he  said. 

The  eyes  of  Anthony  fled  to  the  clock  face 
mechanically  and  returned. 

"  Death  terrified  me  to-day,  Sergius,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  it  struck  me  that  the  most  awful  power  that 
God  has  given  to  man  is  the  power  of  setting  death 
—  like  a  dog  —  at  another  man." 

Sergius  swallowed  all  the  wine  in  his  glass  at 
a  gulp.  He  was  no  longer  smiling.  His  hand 
went  up  to  his  left  side. 

"  It  may  be  awful,"  he  rejoined  ;  "  but  it 's 
grand.  By  Heaven  !  it 's  magnificent." 

He  got  up,  as  if  excited,  and  moved  about  the 
room,  while  Anthony  went  on  pretending  to  eat. 
After  a  minute  or  two  Sergius  sat  down  again. 

"  Power  of  any  kind  is  a  grand  thing,"  he  said. 

"  Only  power  for  good." 

"  You  're  bound  to  say  that ;  you  're  a  parson," 


248  BYE-WAYS 

"  I  only  say  what  I  really  feel ;  you  know  that, 
Serge." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  understand." 

Anthony  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden,  strong 
significance. 

"  Part  of  a  parson's  profession  —  the  most  im- 
portant part  —  is  to  understand  men  who  are  n't 
parsons." 

"  You  think  you  understand  men  ?  " 

"  Some  men." 

"  Me,  for  instance  ?  " 

The  question  came  abruptly,  defiantly.  Anthony 
seemed  glad  to  answer  it. 

"  Well,  yes,  Sergius ;  I  think  I  do  thoroughly 
understand  you.  My  great  friendship  alone  might 
well  make  me  do  that." 

The  face  of  Sergius  grew  a  little  softer  in  ex- 
pression, but  he  did  not  assent. 

u  Perhaps  it  might  blind  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Well,  then,  now,  if  you  understand  me  —  tell 
me  —  " 

Sergius  broke  off  suddenly. 

"  This  champagne  is  awfully  good,"  he  said,  filling 
his  glass  again. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ? "  Anthony 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know  —  nothing." 

Anthony  tried  to  conceal  his  disappointment. 
Sergius  had  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  over- 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     249 

leaping  the  barrier  which  lay  between  them.  Once 
that  barrier  was  overleapt,  or  broken  down,  Anthony 
felt  that  the  mission  he  had  imposed  upon  himself 
would  stand  a  chance  of  being  accomplished,  that 
his  gnawing  anxiety  would  be  laid  to  rest.  But 
once  more  Sergius  diffused  around  him  a  strange 
and  cold  atmosphere  of  violent  and  knowing  re- 
serve. He  went  away  from  the  table  and  sat  down 
close  to  the  fire.  From  there  he  threw  over  his 
shoulder  the  remark  :  — 

"  No  man  or  woman  ever  understands  another 
—  really." 


Ill 

ANTHONY  did  not  reply  for  a  moment  and  Sergius 
continued  :  — 

"You,  for  instance,  could  never  guess  what  I 
should  do  in  certain  circumstances." 

"Such  as — " 

"  Oh,  in  a  thousand  things." 

"  I  should  have  a  shrewd  idea." 

"No." 

Anthony  did  n't  contradict  him,  but  got  up  from 
the  dinner-table  and  joined  him  by  the  fire,  glass 
in  hand. 

"  I  might  not  let  you  know  how  much  I  guessed, 
how  much  I  knew." 

Sergius  laughed. 


250  BYE-WAYS 

"  Qh,  ignorance  always  surrounds  itself  with 
mystery,"  he  said. 

"  Knowledge  need  not  go  naked." 

Again  the  eyes  of  the  two  friends  met  in  the 
firelight,  and  over  the  face  of  Sergius  there  ran  a 
new  expression.  There  was  an  awakening  of  won- 
der in  it,  but  no  uneasiness.  Anxiety  was  far  away 
from  him  that  night.  When  passion  has  gripped  a 
man,  passion  strong  enough,  resolute  enough,  to 
over-ride  all  the  prejudices  of  civilisation,  all  the 
promptings  of  the  coward  within  us,  whose  voice, 
whining,  we  name  prudence,  the  semi-comprehen- 
sion, the  criticism  of  another  man  cannot  move  him. 
Sergius  wondered  for  an  instant  whether  Anthony 
suspected  against  what  his  heart  was  beating.  That 
was  all. 

While  he  wondered,  the  clock  chimed  the  half 
hour  after  nine.  He  heard  it. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  very  soon,"  he  said. 

"  You  can't.     Just  listen  to  the  rain." 

u  Rain  !     What 's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

Sergius  spoke  with  a  sudden  unutterable  con- 
tempt. 

"  Ring  for  another  bottle  of  champagne,"  An- 
thony replied.  "  This  one  is  empty." 

11  Well  —  for  a  parson  and  a  teetotaller,  I  must 
say !  " 

Sergius  rang  the  bell.  A  second  bottle  was 
opened.  The  servant  went  out  of  the  room. 
As  he  closed  the  door,  the  wind  sighed  harshly 


THE    MAN    WHO    INTERVENED     251 

against  the  window  panes,  driving  the  rain  before 
it. 

"  Rough  at  sea  to-night,"  Anthony  said. 

The  remark  was  an  obvious  one  ;  but,  as  spoken, 
it  sounded  oddly  furtive,  and  full  of  hidden  mean- 
ing. Sergius  evidently  found  it  so,  for  he  said  : 

"  Why,  whom  d'  you  know  that 's  going  to  sea 
to-night  ? " 

Anthony  was  startled  by  the  quick  question,  and 
replied  almost  nervously  :  — 

"  Nobody  in  particular  —  why  should  I  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  think  you  do." 

"  People  one  knows  cross  the  channel  every  night 
almost." 

"  Of  course,"  Sergius  said  indifferently. 

He  glanced  towards  the  clock  and  again  mechan- 
ically his  hand  went  up,  for  a  second,  to  his  left 
breast.  Anthony  leaned  forward  in  his  chair 
quickly,  and  broke  into  speech.  He  had  seen  the 
stare  at  the  clock-face,  the  gesture. 

"  It 's  strange,"  he  said,  "  how  people  go  out  of 
our  lives,  how  friends  go,  and  enemies  !  " 

"  Enemies !  " 

"  Yes.  I  sometimes  wonder  which  exit  is  the 
sadder.  When  a  friend  goes  —  with  him  goes,  per- 
haps for  ever,  the  chance  of  saying  1 1  am  your 
friend.'  When  an  enemy  goes  —  " 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  With  him  goes,  perhaps  for  ever,  too,  the  chance 
of  saying,  *  I  am  not  your  enemy.'  " 


252  BYE-WAYS 

"  Pshaw  !     Parson's  talk,  Anthony." 

"  No,  Sergius,  other  men  forgive  besides  par- 
sons; and  other  men,  and  parsons  too,  pass  by 
their  chances  of  forgiving." 

"  You  're  a  whole  Englishman,  I  'm  only  half 
an  Englishman.  There 's  something  untamed  in 
my  blood,  and  I  say  —  damn  forgiveness  !  " 

"  And  yet  you  've  forgiven." 

"Whom?" 

"  Olga  Mayne." 

The  face  of  Sergius  did  not  change  at  the  sound 
of  this  name,  unless,  perhaps,  to  a  more  fixed 
calm,  a  more  still  and  pale  coldness. 

41  Olga  is  punished,"  he  said.     "  She  is  ruined." 

"  Her  ruin  may  be  repaired." 

Sergius  smiled  quietly. 

"  You  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Tell  me,  Sergius  "  —  Anthony  spoke 
with  a  strong  earnestness,  a  strong  excitement  that 
he  strove  to  conceal  and  hold  in  check  — "  you 
loved  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  loved  her  —  certainly." 

"  You  will  always  love  her  ?  " 

"  Since  I  'm  not  changeable,  I  daresay  I  shall." 

Anthony's  thin,  eager  face  brightened.  A  glow 
of  warmth  burned  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  cheeks. 

"  Then  you  would  wish  her  ruin  repaired." 

«  Should  I  ?  " 

"  If  you  love  her,  you  must." 

"  How  could  it  be  repaired  ?  " 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     253 

"  By  her  marriage  with  —  Vernon." 

Anthony's  strong  voice  quivered  before  he  pro- 
nounced the  last  word,  and  his  eyes  were  alight 
with  fervent  anxiety.  He  was  looking  at  Sergius 
like  a  man  on  the  watch  for  a  tremendous  outbreak 
of  emotion.  The  champagne  he  had  drunk  —  a 
new  experience  for  him  since  he  had  taken  orders 
—  put  a  sort  of  wild  finishing  touch  to  the  inten- 
sity of  the  feelings,  under  the  impulse  of  which 
he  had  forced  himself  upon  Sergius  to-night.  He 
supposed  that  his  inward  excitement  must  be  more 
than  matched  by  the  so  different  inward  excite- 
ment of  his  friend.  But  he  —  who  thought  he 
understood  !  —  had  no  true  conception  of  the  re- 
gion of  cold,  frosty  fury  in  which  Sergius  was 
living,  like  a  being  apart  from  all  other  men, 
ostracised  by  the  immensity  and  peculiarity  of 
his  own  power  of  emotion.  Therefore  he  was 
astonished  when  Sergius,  with  undiminished  quie- 
tude, replied  : 

"  Oh,  with  Vernon,  that  charming  man  of 
fashion,  whose  very  soul,  they  say,  always  wears 
lavender  gloves  ?  You  think  that  would  be  a 
good  thing  ?  " 

"  Good  !  I  don't  say  that.  I  say  —  as  the 
world  is  now  —  the  only  thing.  He  is  the  author 
of  her  fall.  He  should  be  her  husband." 

«  And  I  ?  " 

Anthony  stretched  out  his  hand  to  grasp  his 
friend's  hand,  but  Sergius  suddenly  took  up  his 


254  BYE-WAYS 

champagne  glass,  and  avoided  the  demonstration  of 
sympathy. 

"  You  can  be  nothing  to  her  now,  Serge," 
Anthony  said,  and  his  voice  quivered  with  sym- 
pathy. 

"  You  think  so  ?     I  might  be." 

«  What  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  her  husband,  not  her  lover,  not  her 
friend." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

Sergius  avoided  answering. 

"  You  would  have  her  settle  down  with  Vernon 
in  Phillimore  Place  ?"  he  said.  "Play  the  wife  to 
his  noble  husband  ?  Well,  I  know  there  's  been 
some  idea  of  that,  as  I  told  you  yesterday." 

The  clock  chimed  ten.  Although  Sergius  seemed 
so  calm,  so  self-possessed,  Anthony  observed  that 
now  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  little,  devilish  note  of 
time.  This  new  subject  of  conversation  had  been 
Anthony's  weapon.  Desperately  he  had  used  it, 
and  not,  it  seemed,  altogether  in  vain. 

u  Yes ;  as  you  told  me  yesterday." 

"  And  it  seems  good  to  you  ? " 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  only  thing  possible  now." 

"  There  are  generally  more  possibilities  than  one 
in  any  given  event,  I  fancy." 

Again  Anthony  was  surprised  at  the  words  of  Ser- 
gius, who  seemed  to  grow  calmer  as  he  grew  more 
excited,  who  seemed,  to-night,  strangely  powerful, 
not  simply  in  temper,  but  even  in  intellect. 


THE   MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     255 

"  For  a  woman  there  is  sometimes  only  one 
possibility  if  she  is  to  be  saved  from  ignominy, 
Serge." 

"  So  you  think  that  Olga  Mayne  must  become 
the  wife  of  Vernon,  who  is  a  —  " 

"  Coward.     Yes." 

At  the  word  coward,  Sergius  seemed  startled 
out  of  his  hard  calm.  He  looked  swiftly  and 
searchingly  at  Anthony. 

"  Why  do  you  say  coward  ?  "  he  asked  sharply. 
"  I  was  not  going  to  use  that  word." 

Anthony  was  obviously  disconcerted. 

"  It  came  to  me,"  he  said  hurriedly. 

"  Why  ?  " 

11  Any  man  that  brings  a  girl  to  the  dust  is  a 
coward." 

"  Ah  —  that 's  not  what  you  meant,"  Sergius 
said. 

Anthony  stole  a  glance  at  the  clock.  The  hand 
crawled  slowly  over  the  quarter  of  an  hour  past 
ten. 

11  No,  it  was  not,"  he  said  slowly. 


IV 

SERGIUS  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  by  the 
fire.  He  was  obviously  becoming  engrossed  by 
the  conversation.  Anthony  could  at  least  notice 
this  with  thankfulness. 


256  BYE-WAYS 

"  Anthony,  I  see  you  Ve  got  a  fresh  knowledge  of 
Vernon  since  I  was  with  you  yesterday,"  Sergius 
continued ;  "  some  new  knowledge  of  his  nature." 

"  Perhaps  I  have." 

u  How  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Does  that  matter  ?  " 

"  You  have  heard  of  something  about  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"You  have  seen  him,  then;  I  say,  you  have 
seen  him  ? " 

Anthony  hesitated.  He  pushed  the  champagne 
bottle  over  towards  Sergius.  It  had  been  placed  on 
a  little  table  near  the  fireplace. 

"  No ;  I  don't  want  to  drink.  Why  on  earth 
don't  you  answer  me,  Anthony  ?  " 

"  I  have  always  felt  that  Vernon  was  a  coward. 
His  conduct  to  you  shows  it.  He  was  —  or  seemed 
—  your  friend.  He  saw  you  deeply  in  love  with 
this  —  with  Olga.  He  chose  to  ruin  her  after  he 
knew  of  your  love.  Who  but  a  coward  could  act 
in  such  a  way  ?  " 

An  expression  of  dark  impatience  came  into  the 
eyes  of  Sergius. 

"  You  are  confusing  treachery  and  cowardice, 
and  you  are  doing  it  untruthfully.  You  have  seen 
Vernon." 

Anthony  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  By  chance,  of  course.  Why  did  you  speak 
to  him?" 


THE   MAN   WHO   INTERVENED     257 

"  I  thought  I  would." 

Sergius  was  obviously  disturbed  and  surprised. 
The  deeply  emotional,  yet  rigid  calm  in  which  he 
had  been  enveloped  all  the  evening  was  broken  at 
last.  A  slight  excitement,  a  distinct  surface  irrita- 
tion, woke  in  him.  Anthony  felt  an  odd  sense  of 
relief  as  he  observed  it.  For  the  constraint  of 
Sergius  had  begun  to  weigh  upon  him  like  a  heavy 
burden  and  to  move  him  to  an  indefinable  dread. 

"  I  wonder  you  did  n't  cut  him,"  Sergius  said. 
"  You  're  my  friend.  And  he  's  —  he 's  —  " 

"  He  's  done  you  a  deadly  injury.  I  know  that. 
I  am  your  friend,  Serge;  I  would  do  anything 
for  you." 

"  Yet  you  speak  to  that  —  devil." 

"  I  spoke  to  him  because  I  'm  your  friend." 

Sergius  sat  down  again,  with  a  heavy  look,  the 
look  of  a  man  who  has  been  thrashed,  and  means 
to  return  every  blow  with  curious  interest. 

"  You  parsons  are  a  riddle  to  me,"  he  said  in  a 
low  and  dull  voice.  "  You  and  your  charity  and 
your  loving-kindness,  and  your  turning  the  cheek 
to  the  smiter  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  And  as  to 
your  way  of  showing  friendship  —  " 

His  voice  died  away  in  something  that  was 
almost  a  growl,  and  he  stared  at  the  carpet.  Be- 
tween it  and  his  eyes  once  more  the  mist  seemed 
rising  stealthily.  It  began  to  curl  upwards  softly 
about  him.  As  he  watched  it,  he  heard  Anthony 
say :  — 

'7 


258  BYE-WAYS 

"  Sergius,  you  don't  understand  how  well  I 
understand  you." 

The  big  hand  of  the  clock  had  left  the  half-hour 
after  ten  behind  him.  Anthony  breathed  more 
freely.  At  last  he  could  be  more  explicit,  more 
unreserved.  He  thought  of  a  train  rushing  through 
the  night,  devouring  the  spaces  of  land  that  lie 
between  London  and  the  sea  that  speaks,  moaning, 
to  the  South  of  England.  He  saw  a  ship  glide  out 
from  the  dreary  docks.  Her  lights  gleamed.  He 
heard  the  bell  struck  and  the  harsh  cry  of  the 
sailors,  and  then  the  dim  sigh  of  a  coward  who 
had  escaped  what  he  had  merited.  Then  he  heard 
Sergius  laugh. 

"  That  again,  Anthony  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  did  n't  meet  Vernon  by  chance  at 
all." 

"  What  ?  You  wrote  to  him,  you  fixed  a 
meeting  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  Phillimore  Place,  to  his  house." 

Sergius  said  nothing.  Strange  furrows  ploughed 
themselves  in  his  young  face,  which  was  growing 
dusky  white.  He  remained  in  the  attitude  of  one 
devoted  entirely  to  listening. 

"  You  hear,  Sergius  ?  " 

"  Go  on  — when  ?  " 

"To-day.  I  decided  to  go  after  I  met  you 
yesterday  night  —  and  after  I  had  seen  that  woman 
die  —  unprepared." 

"  What  could  she  have  to  do  with  it  ?  " 


THE   MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     259 

"  Much.     Everything  almost." 

Anthony  got  up  now,  almost  sprang  up  from 
his  chair.  His  face  was  glowing  and  working 
with  emotion.  There  was  a  choking  sensation  in 
his  throat. 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
"  to  a  man  with  —  with  strong  religious  belief  to 
see  a  human  being's  solil  go  out  to  blackness,  to 
punishment  —  perhaps  to  punishment  that  will 
never  end.  It 's  abominable.  It 's  unbearable. 
That  woman  will  haunt  me.  Her  despair  will 
be  with  me  always.  I  could  not  add  to  that 
horror." 

His  eyes  once  more  sought  the  clock.  Seeing 
the  hour,  he  turned,  with  a  kind  of  liberating  re- 
lief, to  Sergius. 

u  I  could  n't  add  to  it,"  he  exclaimed,  almost 
fiercely,  "  so  I  went  to  Vernon." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Sergius  —  to  warn  him." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Even  the  rain  was 
hushed  against  the  window.  Then  Sergius  said, 
in  a  voice  that  was  cold  as  the  sound  of  falling 
water  in  winter :  — 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Because  you  won't  understand  how  I  have 
learnt  to  know  you,  Sergius,  to  understand  you, 
to  read  your  soul." 

"  Mine  too  ?  " 

"Yes;    I've  felt  this  awful  blow  that's  come 


260  BYE-WAYS 

upon  you  —  the  loss  of  Olga,  her  ruin  —  as  if  I 
myself  were  you.  We  have  n't  said  much  about 
it  till  yesterday.  Then,  from  the  way  you  spoke, 
from  the  way  you  looked,  from  what  you  said, 
even  what  you  would  n't  say,  I  guessed  all  that 
was  in  your  heart." 

"  You  guessed  all  that  ?  " 

Sergius  was  looking  directly  at  Anthony  and 
leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  along  which  he 
stretched  one  arm.  His  fingers  closed  and  un- 
closed, with  a  mechanical  and  rhythmical  move- 
ment, round  a  china  figure.  The  motion  looked 
as  if  it  were  made  in  obedience  to  some  fiercely 
monotonous  music. 

"  Yes,  more  —  I  knew  it." 

Sergius  nodded. 

" 1  see,"  he  said. 

Anthony  touched  his  arm,  almost  with  an  awe- 
struck gesture. 

"  I  knew  then  that  you  —  that  you  intended  to 
kill  Vernon.  And — God  forgive  me!  —  at  first  I 
was  almost  glad." 

"Well— go  on!" 

Anthony  shivered.  The  voice  of  Sergius  was 
so  strangely  calm  and  level. 

"I  —  I  —  "  he  stammered.  "  Serge,  why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that  ?  " 

Sergius  looked  away  without  a  word. 

"  For  I,  too,  hated  Vernon,  more  for  what  ht 
had  done  to  you  even  than  for  what  he  had  done 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     261 

to  Olga.  But,  Sergius,  after  you  had  gone,  in  the 
night,  and  in  the  dawn  too,  I  kept  on  thinking  of 
it  over  and  over.  I  could  n't  get  away  from  it  — 
that  you  were  going  to  commit  such  an  awful 
crime.  I  never  slept.  When  at  last  it  was  morn- 
ing, I  went  down  to  my  district ;  there  are  crim- 
inals there,  you  know." 

« I  know." 

"  I  looked  at  them  with  new  eyes,  and  in  their 
eyes  I  saw  you,  always  you ;  and  then  I  said  to 
myself  could  I  bear  that  you  should  become  a 
criminal  ?  " 

"  You  said  that  ?  " 

The  fingers  of  Sergius  closed  over  the  china 
figure,  and  did  not  unclose. 

"  Yes.  I  almost  resolved  then  to  go  to  Vernon 
at  once  and  to  tell  him  what  I  suspected  —  what 
I  really  knew.  " 

The  clock  struck  eleven.  Anthony  heard  it ; 
Sergius  did  not  hear  it. 

"  Then  I  went  to  sit  with  that  wretched  woman. 
Already  I  had  resolved,  as  I  believed,  on  the 
course  to  take.  I  had  no  thought  for  Vernon 
yet,  only  for  you.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  did  not 
care  in  the  least  to  save  him  from  death.  I  only 
cared  to  save  you  —  my  friend  —  from  murder. 
But  when  the  woman  died  I  felt  differently.  My 
resolve  was  strengthened,  my  desire  was  just 
doubled.  I  had  to  save  not  only  you,  but  also  him. 
He  was  not  ready  to  die." 


262  BYE-WAYS 

Anthony  trembled  with  a  passion  of  emotion. 
Sergius  remained  always  perfectly  calm,  the  china 
figure  prisoned  in  his  hand. 

"  So  —  so  I  went  to  him,  Sergius." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  saw  him.  Almost  as  I  entered  he  received 
your  letter,  saying  that  you  forgave  him,  that  you 
would  call  to-night  after  eight  o'clock  to  tell  him 
so,  and  to  urge  on  his  marriage  with  Olga.  When 
he  had  read  the  letter  —  I  interpreted  it  to  him ; 
and  then  I  found  out  that  he  was  a  coward.  His 
terror  was  abject  —  despicable;  he  implored  my 
help;  he  started  at  every  sound." 

"  To-night  he  '11  sleep  quietly,  Anthony." 

"To-night  he  has  gone.  Before  morning  he 
will  be  on  the  sea." 

The  sound  of   the  wind  came  to  them  again, 

O  * 

and  Sergius  understood  why  Anthony  had  said : 
"  Rough  at  sea  to-night." 

Suddenly  Sergius  moved ;  he  unclosed  his  fin- 
gers :  the  ruins  of  the  china  figure  fell  from  them 
in  a  dust  of  blue  and  white  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"  No  —  it 's  too  late,  Sergius.  He  went  at 
eleven." 

Sergius  stood  quite  still. 

"You  came  here  to-night  to  keep  me  here  till 
he  had  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That 's  why  you  —  " 

He  stopped. 


THE    MAN   WHO    INTERVENED     263 

"  That 's  why  I  came.  That 's  why  I  broke  my 
pledge.  I  thought  wine  —  any  weapon  to  keep 
you  from  this  crime.  And,  Sergius,  think.  Vernon 
dead  could  never  have  restored  Olga  to  the  place 
she  has  lost.  That,  too,  must  have  driven  me  to 
the  right  course,  though  I  scarcely  thought  of  it 
till  now." 

Sergius  said,  as  if  in  reply  :  "  So  you  have  un- 
derstood me !  " 

"  Yes,  Sergius.  Friendship  is  something.  Let 
us  thank  God,  not  even  that  he  is  safe,  but  that 
you  —  you  are  safe  —  and  that  Olga  —  " 

"  Hush  !      Has  she  gone  with  him  ?  " 

"  She  will  meet  him.  He  has  sworn  to  marry 
her." 

The  hand  of  Sergius  moved  to  his  left  breast. 
Anthony's  glowing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Sergius,"  Anthony  cried.  "  Put  that 
cursed,  cursed  thing  down,  put  it  away.  Now 
it  can  never  wreck  your  life  and  my  peace." 

Sergius  drew  out  the  revolver  slowly  and  care- 
fully. Again  the  mist  rose  around  him.  But  it 
was  no  longer  white;  it  was  scarlet. 

There  was  a  report.  Anthony  fell,  without  a 
word,  a  cry. 

Then  Sergius  bent  down,  and  listened  to  the 
silence  of  his  friend's  heart  —  the  long  silence  of 
the  man  who  intervened. 


AFTER  TO-MORROW 


AFTER  TO-MORROW 


IN  his  gilded  cage,  above  the  window-boxes  that 
were  full  of  white  daisies,  the  canary  chirped  with 
a  desultory  vivacity.  That  was  the  only  near 
sound  that  broke  the  silence  in  the  drawing-room 
of  No.  100  Mill  Street,  Knightsbridge,  in  which 
a  man  and  a  woman  stood  facing  one  another. 
Away,  beyond  his  twittering  voice,  sang  in  the 
London  streets  the  muffled  voice  of  the  season. 
The  time  was  late  afternoon,  and  rays  of  mellow 
light  slanted  into  the  pretty  room,  and  touched  its 
crowd  of  inanimate  occupants  with  a  radiance  in 
which  the  motes  danced  merrily  The  china  faces 
of  two  goblins  on  the  mantelpiece  glowed  with  a 
grotesque  meaning,  and  their  yellow  smiles  seemed 
to  call  aloud  on  mirth ;  but  the  faces  of  the  man 
and  woman  were  pale,  and  their  lips  trembled,  and 
did  not  smile. 

She  was  tall,  dark,  and  passionate-looking,  per- 
haps twenty-eight  or  thirty.  He  was  a  few  years 
older,  a  man  so  steadfast  in  expression  that  silly 
people,  who  spring  at  exaggeration  as  saints  spring 
at  heaven,  called  him  stern,  and  even  said  he  looked 
forbidding  —  at  balli. 


268  BYE-WAYS 

At  last  the  song  of  the  canary  was  broken  upon 
by  a  voice.  Sir  Hugh  Maine  spoke,  very  quietly. 
"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Glinn 
answered,  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"  You  prefer  to  refuse  me  without  giving  a 
reason  ?  " 

" 1  have  a  right  to,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  question  it.  You  cannot  expect  me  to 
say  more  than  that." 

He  took  up  his  hat,  which  lay  on  a  chair,  and 
smoothed  it  mechanically  with  his  coat-sleeve. 

The  action  seemed  to  pierce  her  like  a  knife, 
for  she  started,  and  half-extended  her  hand. 
"  Don't !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  At  least,  wait  one 
moment.  So  you  belong  to  the  second  class  of 
men." 

u  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Men  are  divided  into  two  classes  —  those  who 
refuse  to  be  refused,  and  those  who  accept.  But 
don't  be  too  — too  swift  in  your  acceptance.  After 
all,  a  refusal  is  not  exactly  a  bank-note." 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"  But  I  am  exactly  a  beggar,"  he  answered,  still 
keeping  the  hat  in  his  hand.  u  And  if  you  have 
nothing  to  give  me,  I  may  as  well  go." 

"  And  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  in  sweeping  the 
old  crossing  ?  " 

"  And  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  as  I  can,"  he 
said.  u  That  need  not  concern  you," 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  269 

"A  woman  must  be  all  to  a  man,  or  nothing  ?  " 

"  You  must  be  all  to  me,  or  nothing." 

She  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  in  that  part  of 
the  room  that  was  in  shadow.  She  always  sat 
instinctively  in  shadow  when  she  wanted  to  think. 

"  Well  ?  "  Sir  Hugh  said.  "  What  are  you 
thinking  ?  " 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  "  That  you  don't  look 
much  like  a  beggar,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  possible  to  feel  tattered  in  a  frock-coat 
and  patent-leather  boots,"  he  answered.  "  Good- 
bye. I  am  going  back  to  my  crossing."  And  he 
moved  towards  the  door. 

"  No,  stop  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Before  you  go, 
tell  me  one  thing." 

«  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Will  you  ever  ask  me  to  marry  you  again  ?  " 

He  looked  hard  into  her  eyes.  "  I  shall  always 
want  to,  but  I  shall  never  do  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  that.  We  women 
depend  so  much  on  a  repetition  of  the  offence, 
when  we  blame  a  man  for  saying  he  loves  us,  and 
ask  him  not  to  do  it  again.  If  you  really  mean 
only  to  propose  once,  I  must  reconsider  my 
position." 

She  was  laughing,  but  the  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  make  this  moment  a 
farcical  one  ? "  he  asked  rather  bitterly. 

"Oh,  Hugh  !  "  she  answered,  "don't  you  see? 


270  BYE-WAYS 

Because  it  is  really — really  so  tragic.  I  only  try 
to  do  for  this  moment  what  we  all  try  to  do  for 
life." 

"  Then  you  love  me  ?  "  he  said,  moving  a  step 
forward. 

"  I  never  denied  that,"  she  replied.  "  I  might 
as  well  deny  that  I  am  a  woman." 

He  held  out  his  arms.  "  Eve  —  then  I  shall 
never  go  back  to  the  crossing." 

But  she  drew  back.  "  Go  —  go  there  till  to- 
morrow !  To-morrow  afternoon  I  will  see  you ; 
and  if  you  love  me  after  that  —  " 

«  Yes  ?  " 

She  turned  away  and  pressed  the  bell.  "  Good- 
bye," she  said.  Her  voice  sounded  strange  to  him. 

He  came  nearer,  and  touched  her  hand ;  but  she 
drew  it  away. 

"  You  may  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

«  Eve  !  " 

"  After  to-morrow." 

The  footman  came  in  answer  to  the  bell.  Mrs 
Glinn  did  not  turn  round.  "  I  only  rang  for  you 
to  open  the  door  for  Sir  Hugh,"  she  said.  "  Good- 
bye then,  Sir  Hugh.  Come  at  five." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered,  wondering. 

When  he  had  gone,  Mrs  Glinn  sat  down  in  a 
chair  and  took  up  a  French  novel.  It  was  by 
Gyp.  She  tried  to  read  it,  with  tears  running  over 
her  cheeks.  But  at  last  she  laid  it  down. 

"  After    to-morrow,"    she    murmured.       "  Ah, 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  271 

why  —  why    does   a    woman    ever    love    twice  ?  " 
And  then  she  sobbed. 

But  the  canary  sang,  and  the  motes  danced  mer- 
rily in  the  sunbeams.  And  on  the  table  where  she 
had  put  it  down  lay  "  Le  Manage  de  Chiffon" 


II 

THAT  evening,  when  Sir  Hugh  Maine  came  back 
to  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street  after  dining  out,  he 
found  a  large  man  sprawling  in  one  of  his  saddle- 
back chairs,  puffing  vigorously  at  a  pipe  that 
looked  worn  with  long  and  faithful  service.  The 
man  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  sprang 
up. 

"  Hullo,  Maine  !  "  he  cried.  "  D'  you  recognise 
the  tobacco  and  me  ?  " 

Hugh  grasped  his  hand  warmly.  "  Rather,"  he 
said.  "  Neither  is  changed.  At  least  —  h'm  —  I 
think  you  both  seem  a  bit  stronger  even  than  usual. 
Who  would  have  thought  of  seeing  you,  Manning  ? 
I  did  not  know  you  were  in  Europe." 

"  I  came  from  Asia.  I  thought  I  should  like  to 
hear  Melba  before  the  end  of  the  season.  And  it 
was  getting  sultry  out  there.  So  here  I  am." 

"  And  were  those  your  only  reasons  ?  " 

"  Give  me  a  brandy-and-soda,"  said  the  other. 

Maine  did  as  he  was  bid,  lit  a  cigar,  and  sat  down, 


272  BYE-WAYS 

stretching  out  his  long  legs.  The  other  man  took 
a  pull  at  his  glass,  and  spoke  again. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  music,"  he  said ;  "  and 
Melba  sings  very  well." 

"  Ah  ! " 

"Look  here,  Maine,"  Manning  broke  out  sud- 
denly, "you  are  right  —  I  had  another  reason. 
Kipling  says  that  those  who  have  heard  the  East 
a-calling  never,  heed  any  other  voice.  He  's  wrong 
though.  The  West  has  been  calling  me,  or,  at 
least,  a  voice  in  the  West,  and  I  have  resisted  it 
for  a  deuce  of  a  time.  But  at  last  it  became 
imperative." 

"  A  woman's  voice,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me  what  is  its  timbre,  if  you  care  to." 

"  I  will.  You  're  an  old  friend,  and  I  can  talk  to 
you.  But  you  tell  me  one  thing  first :  Is  a  man 
really  a  fool  to  marry  a  woman  with  a  past  ?  " 

"  You  are  going  to  ?  " 

"  I  have  tried  not  to.  I  have  been  trying  not  to 
for  three  years.  Listen  !  When  I  was  travelling 
in  Japan  I  met  her.  She  was  with  an  American 
called  Glinn." 

«  What  ?  " 

"  You  knew  him  ?  " 

"No  !  It's  all  right.  I  was  surprised,  because 
at  the  moment  I  was  thinking  of  that  very  name." 

"  Oh  !  Well,  she  passed  as  Mrs  Glinn ;  but, 
somehow,  it  got  out  that  she  was  something  else. 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  273 

The  usual  story,  you  know.  People  fought  shy  of 
her;  but  I  don't  think  she  cared  much.  Glinn  was 
devoted  to  her,  and  she  loved  him,  and  was  as  true 
to  him  as  any  wife  could  have  been.  Then  the 
tragedy  came." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Glinn  died  suddenly  in  Tokio,  of  typhoid. 
She  nursed  him  to  the  end.  And  when  the  end 
came  her  situation  was  awful,  so  lonely  and  de- 
serted. There  was  n't  a  woman  in  the  hotel  who 
would  be  her  friend  ;  so  I  tried  to  come  to  the 
rescue,  arranged  her  affairs,  saw  about  the  funeral, 
and  did  what  I  could.  She  was  well  off;  Glinn 
left  her  nearly  all  his  money.  He  would  have 
married  her,  only  he  had  a  wife  alive  somewhere." 

11  And  you  fell  in  love  with  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  That  was  the  sort  of  thing.  If  you  knew  her 
you  would  not  wonder  at  it.  She  was  not  a  bad 
woman.  Glinn  had  been  the  only  one.  She  loved 
him  too  much ;  that  was  all.  She  came  to  Europe, 
and  lived  in  Paris  for  a  time,  keeping  the  name  of 
Mrs  Glinn.  I  used  to  see  her  sometimes,  but  I 
never  said  anything.  You  see,  there  was  her  past. 
In  fact,  I  have  been  fighting  against  her  for  three 
years.  I  went  to  India  to  get  cured  ;  but  it  was 
no  good.  And  now,  here  I  am." 

"  And  she  is  in  Paris  ?  " 

"  No,  in  London  at  present ;  but  I  did  n't  know 
her  address  till  to-day.     I  think  she  had  her  doubts 
of  me,  and  meant  to  give  me  the  slip." 
18 


274  BYE-WAYS 

"  How  did  you  "find  it  out  ?  " 

"  Quite  by  chance.  I  was  walking  in  Mill 
Street,  Knightsbridge,  and  saw  her  pass  in  a 
victoria." 

Maine  got  up  suddenly,  and  went  over  to  the 
spirit-stand.  "  In  Mill  Street  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes.  The  carriage  stopped  at  No.  100.  She 
went  in.  A  footman  came  out  and  carried  in  her 
rug.  Ergo,  she  lives  there." 

"  How  hot  it  is !  "  said  Maine  in  a  hard  voice. 
He  threw  up  one  of  the  windows  and  leaned  out. 
He  felt  as  if  he  were  choking.  A  little  way  down 
the  street  a  half-tipsy  guardsman  was  reeling  along, 
singing  his  own  private  version  of  "  Tommy 
Atkins."  He  narrowly  avoided  a  lamp-post  by  an 
abrupt  lurch  which  took  him  into  the  gutter.  Maine 
heard  some  one  laugh.  It  was  himself. 

"Well,  old  chap,"  said  Manning, who  had  come 
up  behind  him,  u  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ? 
I  'm  in  a  fix.  I  'm  in  love  with  Eve  —  that 's  her 
name ;  I  can't  live  without  her  happily,  and  yet  I 
hate  to  marry  a  woman  with  a  —  well,  you  know 
how  it  is." 

Maine  drew  himself  back  into  the  room  and  faced 
round.  "Does  she  love  you?"  he  asked;  and 
there  was  a  curious  change  in  his  manner  towards 
his  friend. 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  does,"  Manning  said, 
rather  uncomfortably.  "  But  that  would  come  right. 
She  would  marry  me,  naturally." 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  275 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  mean  the  position.  Lady  Herbert 
Manning  could  go  where  Mrs  Glinn  could  not, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"The  only  question  is  whether  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  ask  her  ?  " 

"  My  dear  chap,  you  don't  put  it  too  pleasantly." 

"  It 's  the  fact,  though." 

Lord  Herbert  hesitated.  Then  he  said  dubiously, 
" 1  suppose  so." 

Maine  lit  another  cigar  and  sat  down  again.  His 
face  was  very  white.  "  You  're  rather  conven- 
tional, Manning,"  he  said  presently. 

"  Conventional !     Why  ?  " 

"You  think  her  —  this  Mrs  Glinn — a  good 
woman.  Is  n't  that  enough  for  you  ?  " 

"  But,  besides  Eve  and  myself,  there  is  a  third 
person  in  the  situation." 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  find  out  that  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Maine. 

The  other  looked  surprised.  "  How  did  I  find 
out  ?  I  don't  understand  you." 

Maine  recollected  himself.  He  had  made  the 
common  mistake  of  fancying  another  might  know 
a  thing  because  he  knew  it. 

"  Who  is  this  third  person  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Society." 

"  Ah  !     I  said  you  were  conventional." 

"  Every  sensible  man  and  woman  is." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  agree.      But  the  third  per- 


276-  BYE-WAYS 

son  does  certainly  complicate  the  situation.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  then  ?  " 

Lord  Herbert  put  down  his  pipe.  It  was  not 
smoked  out.  "  That 's  what  I  want  to  know," 
he  answered. 

"  Of  course,  there's  the  one  way  —  of  being 
unconventional.  Then,  there  's  the  way  of  being 
conventional  but  unhappy.  Is  there  any  alterna- 
tive ?" 

Lord  Herbert  hesitated  obviously,  but  at  length 
he  said  :  u  There  is,  of  course;  but  Mrs  Glinn  is  a 
curious  sort  of  woman.  I  don't  quite  know  — 

He  paused,  looking  at  his  friend.  Maine's  face 
was  drawn  and  fierce. 

"  What 's  the  row  ?  "  Lord  Herbert  asked. 

"  Nothing ;  only  I  should  n't  advise  you  to  try 
the  alternative.  That 's  all." 

"  Maine,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Just  this,"  replied  the  other.  "  That  I  know 
Mrs  Glinn,  that  I  agree  with  you  about  her 
character  —  " 

"  You  know  her  ?     That 's  odd  !  " 

"  I  have  known  her  for  a  year." 

They  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes  while  a 
minute  passed.  Then  Lord  Herbert  said  slowly, 
"  I  understand." 

"  What  ?  " 

"That  I  have  come  to  the  wrong  man  for 
advice." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  ticking 


AFTER  TO-MORROW  277 

of  a  clock  and  the  uneasy  movements  of  Maine's 
fox-terrier,  which  was  lying  before  the  empty  grate 
and  dreaming  of  departed  fires. 

At  last  Maine  said  :  "  To-day  I  asked  Mrs  Glinn 
to  marry  me." 

The  other  started  perceptibly.  "  Knowing  what 
I  have  told  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  knowing  it." 

"  What  —  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"Nothing.     I  am  to  see  her  to-morrow." 

Lord  Herbert  glanced  at  him  furtively.  "  I 
suppose  you  will  not  go  —  now  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Manning,  I  shall,"  Maine  answered. 

u  Well,"  the  other  man  continued,  looking  at 
his  watch  and  yawning,  "  I  must  be  going.  It 's 
late.  Glad  to  have  seen  you,  Maine.  I  am  to 
be  found  at  80  St  James's  Place.  Thanks ;  yes  I 
will  have  my  coat  on.  My  pipe  —  oh!  here  it  is. 
Good-night." 

The  door  closed,  and  Maine  was  left  alone. 

"  Will  she  tell  me  to-morrow,  or  will  she  be 
silent  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  That  depends  on 
one  thing  :  Has  love  of  truth  the  largest  half  of 
her  heart,  or  love  of  me  ?  " 

He  sighed  —  at  the  conventionality  of  the  world, 
perhaps. 


278  BYE-WAYS 


III 

"  I  AM  not  at  home  to  any  one  except  Sir  Hugh 
Maine,"  Mrs  Glinn  said  to  the  footman.  "  You 
understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

He  went  out  softly  and  closed  the  door. 

The  English  summer  had  gone  back  upon  its 
steps  that  afternoon,  and  remembered  the  duty  it 
owed  to  its  old-time  reputation.  The  canary,  a 
puffed-out  ball  of  ragged-looking  feathers  in  its 
cage,  seemed  listening  with  a  depressed  attention 
to  the  beat  of  the  cold  rain  against  the  window. 
The  daisies,  in  their  boxes,  dripped  and  nodded  in 
the  wind.  There  was  a  darkness  in  the  pretty 
room,  and  the  smile  of  the  china  goblins  was  no 
longer  yellow.  Like  many  people  who  are  not 
made  of  china,  they  depended  upon  adventitious 
circumstances  for  much  of  their  outward  show. 
When  they  were  not  gilded  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  the  pill  apparent  in  their  nature. 

Mrs  Glinn  was  trying  not  to  be  restless.  She 
was  very  pale,  and  her  dark  eyes  gleamed  with  an 
almost  tragic  fire  ;  but  she  sat  down  firmly  on  the 
white  sofa,  and  read  Gyp,  as  Carmen  may  have 
read  her  doom  in  the  cards.  One  by  one  the 
pages  were  turned.  One  by  one  the  epigrams 
were  made  the  property  of  another  mind.  But 
through  all  the  lightness  and  humour  of  the  story 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  279 

there  crept  like  a  little  snake  a  sentence  that  Gyp 
had  not  written  :  — 

"  Can  I  tell  him  ?  " 

And  no  answer  ever  came  to  that  question. 
When  the  door-bell  at  last  rang,  Mrs  Glinn 
laid  down  her  novel  carefully,  and  mechanically 
stood  up.  A  change  of  attitude  was  necessary  to 
her. 

Sir  Hugh  came  in,  and  was  followed  by  tea. 
They  sat  down  by  the  tiny  table,  and  discussed 
French  literature.  Flaubert  and  Daudet  go  as 
well  with  tea  as  Fielding  and  Smollett  go  with 
supper. 

But,  when  the  cups  were  put  down,  Maine 
drove  the  French  authors  in  a  pack  out  of  the 
conversation. 

"  I  did  not  come  here  to  say  what  I  can  say  to 
every  woman  I  meet  who  understands  French," 
he  remarked. 

And  then  Mrs  Glinn  was  fully  face  to  face  with 
her  particular  guardian  devil. 

"  No  ?  "   she  said. 

She  did  not  try  to  postpone  the  moment  she 
dreaded.  For  she  had  a  strong  man  to  deal  with, 
and,  being  a  strong  woman  at  heart,  she  generally 
held  out  her  hand  to  the  inevitable. 

"  You  have  been  thinking  ?  "  Maine  went  on. 

"  Yes.  What  a  sad  occupation  that  is  some- 
times—  like  knitting,  or  listening  to  church-bells  at 
night ! " 


28o  BYE-WAYS 

"  Eve,  let  us  be  serious." 

"  God  knows  I  am,"  she  answered.  "  But 
modern  gravity  is  dressed  in  flippancy.  No  feel- 
ing must  go  quite  naked." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said.  "As  there  is 
a  nudity  in  art  that  may  be.  beautiful,  so  there  is  a 
nudity  in  expression,  in  words,  that  may  be  beauti- 
ful. Eve,  I  have  come  to  hear  you  tell  me  some- 
thing. You  know  that."  He  glanced  into  her 
face  with  an  anxiety  that  she  did  not  fully  under- 
stand. Then  he  said  :  "  Tell  it  me." 

"  There  is  —  is  so  much  to  tell,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  He  does  not  understand,"  she  thought. 

He  thought,  "  She  does  not  understand." 

"  And  I  am  not  good  at  telling  stories." 

"  Then  tell  me  the  truth." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  she  was  trembling.     "  Of 

'  D 

course.  Why  should  I  not  ?  "  She  hesitated,  and 
then  added,  with  a  forced  attempt  at  petulance, 
"  But  there  is  nothing  so  awkward  as  giving  people 
more  than  they  expect.  Is  there  ?  " 

He  understood  her  question,  despite  its  apparent 
inconsequence,  and  his  heart  quickened  its  beating  : 
"  Give  me  everything." 

"  I  suppose  I  should  be  doing  that  if  I  gave  you 
myself,"  she  said  nervously. 

"  You  know  best,"  he  answered ;  and  for  a 
moment  she  was  puzzled  by  not  catching  the 
affirmative  for  which  she  had  angled. 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  281 

"  Do  you  want  me  very,  very  much  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  So  much  that,  as  I  told  you  yesterday,  I  could 
not  ask  for  you  twice.  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  could  not  marry  a  man  who  had 
bothered  me  to  be  his  wife.  One  might  as  well 
be  scolded  into  virtue.  You  want  me,  then, 
Hugh,  and  I  want  you.  But  — " 

Again  she  stopped,  with  sentences  fluttering,  as 
it  seemed,  on  the  very  edges  of  her  lips.  Her 
heart  was  at  such  fearful  odds  with  her  conscience, 
that  she  felt  as  if  he  must  hear  the  clashing  of  the 
swords.  And  he  did  hear  it.  He  would  fain  have 
cheered  on  both  the  combatants.  Which  did  he 
wish  should  be  the  conqueror  ?  He  hardly  knew. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  is  always  so  difficult  to  finish  a  sentence  that 
begins  with  '  but,' "  she  began  ;  and  for  the  first 
time  her  voice  sounded  tremulous.  "  When  two 
people  want  each  other  very  much,  there  is  always 
something  that  ought  to  keep  them  apart  —  at 
least,  I  think  so.  God  must  love  solitude ;  it  is 
His  gift  to  so  many."  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Why  should  we  keep  apart,  Eve  ?  " 

"  Because  we  should  be  too  happy  together,  I 
suppose." 

He  leaned  suddenly  forward  and  took  both  her 
hands  in  his.  "  How  cold  you  are  !  "  he  said, 
startled. 


282  BYE-WAYS 

The  words  seemed  to  brace  her  like  a  sea- 
breeze. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. There  is  a  '  but  *  in  the  sentence  of  my 
life." 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  with  a  strange  im- 
pulse to  be  nearer  the  soul  that  was  about  to  prove 
itself  as  noble  as  he  desired.  But  that  very  act 
prevented  the  fulfilment  of  his  wish.  The  touch 
of  his^hands,  the  eagerness  of  his  eyes,  gave  the 
victory  to  her  heart.  She  shut  the  lips  that  were 
speaking,  and  he  kissed  them.  Kisses  act  as  an 
opiate  on  a  woman's  conscience.  Only  when  Eve 
felt  his  lips  on  hers  did  she  know  her  own  weak- 
ness. Sir  Hugh  having  kissed  her,  waited  for  the 
telling  of  the  secret.  At  that  moment  he  might  as 
well  have  sat  down  and  waited  for  the  millennium. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  "  nothing."  She 
spoke  the  word  with  a  hard  intonation. 

Hugh  held  her  close  in  his  arms,  with  a  sort  of 
strange  idea  that  to  do  so  would  crush  his  dis- 
appointment. She  was  proving  her  love  by  her 
silence.  Why,  then,  did  he  wish  that  she  should 
speak  ?  At  last  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  :  — 

u  There  is  one  thing  you  ought  to  know.  If  I 
marry  you,  I  marry  you  a  beggar.  I  shall  lose  my 
fortune.  I  am  not  obliged  to  lose  it,  but  I  mean 
to  give  it  up.  Don't  ask  me  why." 

He  had   no   need  to.      He  waited,  but   she  was 


AFTER   TO-MORROW  283 

silent.  So  that  was  all.  He  kissed  her  again, 
loosened  his  arms  from  about  her  and  stood  up. 

"  I  have  enough  for  both,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  and  she  could  not  look 
at  him. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  she  said. 

u  Yes ;  but  I  will  call  this  evening." 

He  was  at  the  door,  and  had  half-opened  it 
when  he  turned  back,  moved  by  a  passionate 
impulse. 

"  Eve  !  "  he  cried,  and  his  eyes  seemed  asking 
her  for  something. 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said,  looking  away. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  he  said  "  Good- 
bye ! "  The  door  closed  upon  him. 

Mrs  Glinn  stood  for  a  moment  where  he  had  left 
her.  In  her  mind  she  was  counting  the  seconds 
that  must  elapse  before  he  could  reach  the  street. 
If  she  could  be  untrue  to  herself  till  then,  she  could 
be  untrue  to  herself  for  ever.  Would  he  walk 
down  the  stairs  slowly  or  fast  ?  She  wanted  to  be 
a  false  woman  so  much,  so  very  much,  that  she 
clenched  her  hands  together.  The  action  seemed 
as  if  it  might  help  her  to  keep  on  doing  wrong. 
But  suddenly  she  unclasped  her  hands,  darted  across 
the  room  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  She  listened, 
and  heard  Hugh's  footsteps  in  the  hall.  He  picked 
up  his  umbrella,  and  unfolded  it  to  be  ready  for 
the  rain.  The  frou-frou  of  the  silk  seemed  to  stir 
her  to  action. 


284  BYE-WAYS 

"  Hugh  !  "  she  cried  in  a  broken  voice. 

He  turned  in  the  hall,  and  looked  up. 

"  Come  back,"  she  said. 

He  came  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  leaning  heavily  on  the  balus- 
trade, and  looking  away,  "  I  have  a  secret  to  tell 
you.  I  have  tried  to  be  wicked  to-day,  but  some- 
how I  can't.  Listen  to  the  truth." 

"  I  need  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  know  it 
already." 

Then  she  looked  at  him,  and  drew  in  her  breath  : 
"  You  know  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  you  must  love  me  !  " 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  hall  door.  The  footman 
opened  it,  held  a  short  parley  with  some  one  who 
was  invisible,  shut  the  door,  and  came  upstairs 
with  a  card. 

Mrs  Glinn  took  it,  and  read,  "  Lord  Herbert 
Manning." 

He  had  decided  to  be  unconventional  too  late. 


A  SILENT   GUARDIAN 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN 


THE  door  of  the  long,  dreary  room,  with  i^ 
mahogany  chairs,  its  littered  table,  its  motley  crew 
of  pale,  silent  people,  opened  noiselessly.  A 
dreary,  lean  footman  appeared  in  the  aperture, 
bowing  towards  a  corner  where,  in  a  recess  near  a 
forlorn,  lofty  window,  sat  a  tall,  athletic-looking 
man  of  about  forty-five  years  of  age,  with  a  strong 
yet  refined  face,  clean  shaven,  and  short,  crisp, 
dark  hair.  The  tall  man  rose  immediately,  lay- 
ing down  an  old  number  of  Punch,  and  made  his 
way  out,  watched  rather  wolfishly  by  the  other 
occupants  of  the  room.  The  door  closed  upon 
him,  and  there  was  a  slight  rustle  and  a  hiss  of 
whispering. 

Two  well-dressed  women  leaned  to  one  another, 
the  feathers  in  their  hats  almost  mingling  as  they 
murmured :  "  Not  much  the  matter  with  him,  I 
should  fancy." 

"He  looks  as  strong  as  a  horse ;  but  modern 
men  are  always  imagining  themselves  ill.  He  has 
lived  too  much,  probably." 

They  laughed  in  a  suppressed  ripple. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  near  the  door,  under  the 


288  BYE-WAYS 

big  picture  of  a  grave  man  in  a  frock-coat,  holding 
a  double  eye-glass  tentatively  in  his  right  hand  as 
if  to  emphasise  an  argument  —  a  young  girl  bent 
towards  her  father,  who  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  That  man  who  has  just  left  the  room  is  Brune, 
the  great  sculptor." 
v «  Is  he  ill  ?  "  the  girl  asked. 

*"  It  seems  so,  since  he  is  here." 

Then  a  silence  fell  again,  broken  only  by  the 
rustle  of  turned  pages  and  the  occasional  uneasy 
shifting  of  feet. 

Meanwhile,  in  a  small  room  across  the  hall,  by 
a  window  through  which  the  autumn  sun  streamed 
with  a  tepid  brightness,  Reginald  Brune  lay  on  a 
narrow  sofa.  His  coat  and  waistcoat  were  thrown 
open ;  his  chest  was  bared.  Gerard  Fane,  the 
great  discoverer  of  hidden  diseases,  raised  himself 
from  a  bent  posture,  and  spoke  some  words  in  a 
clear,  even  voice. 

Brune  lifted  himself  half  up  on  his  elbow,  and 
began  mechanically  to  button  the  collar  of  his 
shirt.  His  long  fingers  did  not  tremble,  though  his 
face  was  very  pale. 

He  fastened  the  collar,  arranged  his  loose  tie, 
and  then  sat  up  slowly. 

A  boy,  clanking  two  shining  milk-cans,  passed 
along  the  pavement,  whistling  a  music-hall  song. 
The  shrill  melody  died  down  the  street,  and  Brune 
listened  to  it  until  there  was  a  silence.  Then  he 


A   SILENT  GUARDIAN  289 

looked  up  at  the  man  opposite  to  him,  and  said, 
as  one  dully  protesting,  without  feeling,  without 
excitement :  — 

"  But,  doctor,  I  was  only  married  three  weeks 
ago." 

Gerard  Fane  gave  a  short  upward  jerk  of  the 
head,  and  said  nothing.  His  face  was  calmly 
grave.  His  glittering  brown  eyes  were  fastened 
on  his  patient.  His  hands  were  loosely  folded 
together. 

Brune  repeated,  in  a  sightly  raised  voice :  — 

"  I  was  married  three  weeks  ago.  It  cannot  be 
true." 

u  I  am  here  to  tell  the  truth,"  the  other  re- 
plied. 

"  But  it  is  so  —  so  ironic.  To  allow  me  to  start 
a  new  life  —  a  beautiful  life  —  just  as  the  night  is 
coming.  Why,  it  is  diabolical ;  it  is  not  just ;  the 
cruelty  of  it  is  fiendish." 

A  spot  of  gleaming  red  stained  each  of  the 
speaker's  thin  cheeks.  He  clenched  his  hands 
together,  riveting  his  gaze  on  the  doctor,  as  he 
went  on  :  — 

"  Can't  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  I  had  no  idea 
—  I  had  not  the  faintest  suspicion  of  what  you  say. 
And  I  have  had  a  very  hard  struggle.  I  have  been 
poor  and  quite  friendless.  I  have  had  to  fight,  and 
I  have  lost  much  of  the  good  in  my  nature  by 
fighting,  as  we  often  do.  But  at  last  I  have  won  the 
battle,  and  I  have  won  more.  I  have  won  good- 
so 


290  BYE-WAYS 

ness  to  give  me  back  some  of  my  illusions.  I  had 
begun  to  trust  life  again.  I  had  — " 

He  stopped  abruptly.     Then  he  said  :  — 

"  Doctor,  are  you  married  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  other  answered ;  and  there  was  a 
note  of  pity  in  his  voice. 

"  Then  you  can't  understand  what  your  verdict 
means  to  me.  Is  it  irrevocable  ?  " 

Gerard  Fane  hesitated. 

"  I  wish  I  could  hope  not ;  but  —  " 

"But—?" 

"  It  is." 

Brune  stood  up.  His  face  was  quite  calm  now 
and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke  again,  was  firm  and 
vibrating. 

"  I  have  some  work  that  I  should  wish  to  finish. 
How  long  can  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Three  months." 

"  One  will  do  if  my  strength  keeps  up  at  all. 
Good-bye." 

There  was  a  thin  chink  of  coins  grating  one 
against  the  other.  The  specialist  said  :  — 

"  I  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,  between  four  and 
five.  I  have  more  directions  to  give  you.  To-day 
my  time  is  so  much  taken  up.  Good-bye." 

The  door  closed. 

In  the  waiting-room,  a  moment  later,  Brune  was 
gathering  up  his  coat  and  hat. 

The  two  ladies  eyed  him  curiously  as  he  took 
them  and  passed  out. 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  291 

u  He  does  look  a  little  pale,  after  all,"  whispered 
one  of  them.  A  moment  later  he  was  in  the 
street. 

From  the  window  of  his  consulting-room,  Ger- 
ard Fane  watched  the  tall  figure  striding  down  the 
pavement. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  man  is  going  to  die,"  he  said 
to  himself. 

And  then  he  turned  gravely  to  greet  a  new 
patient. 


II 

GERARD  FANE'S  victoria  drew  up  at  the  iron  gate 
of  No.  5  Ilbury  Road,  Kensington,  at  a  quarter 
past  four  the  following  afternoon.  A  narrow  strip 
of  garden  divided  the  sculptor's  big  red  house  from 
the  road.  Ornamental  ironwork  on  a  brick  foun- 
dation closed  it  in.  The  great  studio,  with  its  huge 
windows  and  its  fluted  pillars,  was  built  out  at 
one  end.  The  failing  sunlight  glittered  on  its 
glass,  and  the  dingy  sparrows  perched  upon  the 
roof  to  catch  the  parting  radiance  as  the  twilight 
fell.  The  doctor  glanced  round  him  and  thought, 
"  How  hard  this  man  must  have  worked  !  In 
London  this  is  a  little  palace." 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  studio,  sir,  please  ?  " 
said  the  footman  in  answer  to  his  summons.  "  Mr 
Brune  is  there  at  present." 


292  BYE-WAYS 

"  Surely  he  cannot  be  working,"  thought  the 
doctor,  as  he  followed  the  man  down  a  glass-cov- 
ered paved  passage,  and  through  a  high  doorway 
across  which  a  heavy  curtain  fell.  "  If  so,  he  must 
possess  resolution  almost  more  than  mortal." 

He  passed  beyond  the  curtain,  and  looked  round 
him  curiously. 

The  studio  was  only  dimly  lit  now,  for  daylight 
was  fast  fading.  On  a  great  open  hearth,  with 
dogs,  a  log-fire  was  burning  ;  •  and  beside  it,  on  an 
old-fashioned  oaken  settle,  sat  a  woman  in  a  loose 
cream-coloured  tea-gown.  She  was  half  turning 
round  to  speak  to  Reginald  Brune,  who  stood  a 
little  to  her  left,  clad  in  a  long  blouse,  fastened 
round  his  waist  with  a  band.  He  had  evidently 
recently  finished  working,  for  his  hands  still  bore 
evident  traces  of  labour,  and  in  front  of  him,  on  a 
raised  platform,  stood  a  statue  that  was  not  far 
from  completion.  The  doctor's  eyes  were  attracted 
from  the  woman  by  the  log-fire,  from  his  patient, 
by  the  lifeless,  white,  nude  figure  that  seemed  to 
press  forward  out  of  the  gathering  gloom.  The 
sculptor  and  his  wife  had  not  heard  him  announced, 
apparently,  for  they  continued  conversing  in  low 
tones,  and  he  paused  in  the  doorway,  strangely 
fascinated — he  could  scarcely  tell  why  —  by  the 
marble  creation  of  a  dying  man. 

The  statue,  which  was  life  size,  represented  the 
figure  of  a  beautiful,  grave  youth,  standing  with 
one  foot  advanced,  as  if  on  the  point  of  stepping 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  293 

forward.  His  muscular  arms  hung  loosely  ;  his 
head  was  slightly  turned  aside  as  in  the  attitude 
of  one  who  listens  for  a  repetition  of  some  vague 
sound  heard  at  a  distance.  His  whole  pose  sug- 
gested an  alert,  yet  restrained,  watchfulness.  The 
triumph  of  the  sculptor  lay  in  the  extraordinary 
suggestion  of  life  he  had  conveyed  into  the  marble. 
His  creature  lived  as  many  mollusc  men  never  live. 
Its  muscles  seemed  tense,  its  body  quivering  with 
eagerness  to  accomplish  —  what  ?  To  attack,  to 
repel,  to  protect,  to  perform  some  deed  demanding 
manfulness,  energy,  free,  fearless  strength. 

"That  marble  thing  could  slay  if  necessary," 
thought  Gerard  Fane,  with  a  thrill  of  the  nerves 
all  through  him  that  startled  him,  and  recalled  him 
to  himself. 

He  stepped  forward  to  the  hearth  quietly,  and 
Brune  turned  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"  I  did  not  hear  you,"  the  sculptor  said.  "  The 
man  must  have  opened  the  door  very  gently. 
Sydney,  this  is  Dr  Gerard  Fane,  who  is  kindly 
looking  after  me." 

The  woman  by  the  fire  had  risen,  and  stood  in 
the  firelight  and  the  twilight,  which  seemed  to  join 
hands  just  where  she  was.  She  greeted  the  specialist 
in  a  girl's  young  voice,  and  he  glanced  at  her  with 
the  furtive  thought,  "  Does  she  know  yet  ?  " 

She  looked  twenty-two,  not  more. 

Her  eyes  were  dark  grey,  and  her  hair  was 
bronze.  Her  figure  was  thin  almost  to  emaciation  j 


294  BYE-WAYS 

but  health  glowed  in  her  smooth  cheeks,  and  spoke 
in  her  swift  movements  and  easy  gestures.  Her 
expression  was  responsive  and  devouringly  eager. 
Life  ran  in  her  veins  with  turbulence,  never  with 
calm.  Her  mouth  was  pathetic  and  sensitive,  but 
there  was  an  odd  suggestion  of  almost  boyish 
humour  in  her  smile. 

Before  she  smiled,  Fane  thought,  "  She  knows." 
!  Afterwards,  "  She  cannot  know." 

"  Have  you  a  few  moments  to  spare  ?  "  Brune 
asked  him.  "  Will  you  have  tea  with  us  ?  " 

Fane  looked  at  Mrs  Brune  and  assented.  He 
felt  a  strange  interest  in  this  man  and  this  woman. 
The  tragedy  of  their  situation  appealed  to  him, 
although  he  lived  in  a  measure  by  foretelling 
tragedies.  Mrs  Brune  touched  an  electric  bell  let 
into  the  oak-panelled  wall,  and  her  husband  drew 
a  big  chair  forward  to  the  hearth. 

As  he  was  about  to  sit  down  in  it,  Gerard  Fane's 
eyes  were  again  irresistibly  drawn  towards  the 
statue;  and  a  curious  fancy,  born,  doubtless,  of  the 
twilight  that  invents  spectres  and  of  the  firelight 
that  evokes  imaginations,  came  to  him,  and  made 
him  for  a  moment  hold  his  breath. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  white  face  menaced 
him,  that  the  white  body  had  a  soul,  and  that  the 
soul  cried  out  against  him. 

His  hand  trembled  on  the  back  of  the  chair. 
Then  he  laughed  to  himself  at  the  absurd  fancy, 
and  sat  down. 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  295 

"  Your  husband  has  been  working  ?  "  he  said  to 
Mrs  Brune. 

"Yes,  all  the  day.  I  could  not  tempt  him  out 
for  even  five  minutes.  But  then,  he  has  had  a 
holiday,  as  he  says,  although  it  was  only  a  fort- 
night. That  was  not  very  long  for  —  for  a  honey- 
moon." 

As  she  said  the  last  sentence  she  blushed  a  little, 
and  shot  a  swift,  half-tender,  half-reproachful  glance 
at  her  husband.  But  he  did  not  meet  it ;  he  only 
looked  into  the  fire,  while  his  brows  slightly 
contracted. 

"  I  think  Art  owns  more  than  half  his  soul,"  the 
girl  said,  with  the  flash  of  a  smile.  "  He  only 
gives  to  me  the  fortnights  and  to  Art  the  years." 

There  was  a  vague  jealousy  in  her  voice ;  but 
then  the  footman  brought  in  tea,  and  she  poured  it 
out,  talking  gaily. 

From  her  conversation,  Fane  gathered  that  she 
had  no  idea  of  her  husband's  condition.  With  a 
curious  and  fascinating  naturalness  she  spoke  of 
her  marriage,  of  her  intentions  for  the  long  future. 

"If  Reginald  is  really  seedy,  Dr  Fane,"  she 
said,  "  get  him  well  quickly,  that  he  may  complete 
his  commissions.  Because,  you  know,  he  has 
promised,  when  they  are  finished,  to  take  me  to 
Italy,  and  to  Greece,  to  the  country  of  Phidias, 
whose  mantle  has  fallen  upon  my  husband." 

"  Do  not  force  Dr  Fane  into  untruth,"  said 
Brune,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 


296  BYE-WAYS 

"  And  is  that  statue  a  commission  ?  "  Fane 
asked,  indicating  the  marble  figure,  that  seemed  to 
watch  them  and  to  listen. 

"  No ;  that  is  an  imaginative  work  on  which  I 
have  long  been  engaged.  I  call  it,  CA  Silent 
Guardian.' " 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  the  doctor  said.  "  What 
is  your  idea  exactly  ?  What  is  the  figure  guard- 
ing?" 

Brune  and  his  wife  glanced  at  one  another  — 
he  gravely,  she  with  a  confident  smile. 

Then  he  said,  "  I  leave  that  to  the  imagination." 

Dr  Fane  looked  again  at  the  statue,  and  said 
slowly,  "You  have  wrought  it  so  finely  that  in 
this  light  my  nerves  tell  me  it  is  alive." 

Mrs  Brune  looked  triumphant. 

"  All  the  world  would  feel  so  if  they  could  see 
it,"  she  said  ;  "  but  it  is  not  to  be  exhibited.  That 
is  our  fancy  —  his  and  mine.  And  now  I  will 
leave  you  together  for  a  few  minutes.  Heal  him 
of  his  ills,  Dr  Fane,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  vanished  through  the  door  at  the  end  of 
the  studio.  The  two  men  stood  together  by  the 
hearth. 

"  She  does  not  know  ?  "  Fane  asked. 

The  other  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  which 
was  pressed  against  the  oak  mantelpiece. 

"  I  am  too  cowardly  to  tell  her,"  he  said  in 
a  choked  voice.  "You  must." 

"  And  when  ?  " 


A   SILENT    GUARDIAN  297 

"  To-day." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then,  in  his  gravest  pro- 
fessional manner,  Fane  gave  some  directions,  and 
wrote  others  down,  while  the  sculptor  looked  into 
the  dancing  fire.  When  Fane  had  finished  :  — 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  now  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

Brune  nodded  without  speaking.  His  face 
looked  drawn  and  contorted  as  he  moved  towards 
the  door.  His  emotion  almost  strangled  him,  and 
the  effort  to  remain  calm  put  a  strain  upon  him 
that  was  terrible. 

Gerard  Fane  was  left  alone  for  a  moment  — 
alone  with  the  statue  whose  personality,  it  seemed 
to  him,  pervaded  the  great  studio.  In  its  attitude 
there  was  a  meaning,  in  its  ghost-like  face  and 
blind  eyes  a  resolution  of  intention,  that  took  pos- 
session of  his  soul.  He  told  himself  that  it  was 
lifeless,  inanimate,  pulseless,  bloodless  marble ;  that 
it  contained  no  heart  to  beat  with  love  or  hate,  no 
soul  to  burn  with  impulse  or  with  agony ;  that  its 
feet  could  never  walk,  its  hands  never  seize  or 
slay,  its  lips  never  utter  sounds  of  joy  or  menace. 
Then  he  looked  at  it  again,  and  he  shuddered. 

"I  am  over-working,"  he  said  to  himself;  "my 
nerves  are  beginning  to  play  me  tricks.  I  must  be 
careful." 

And  he  forcibly  turned  his  thoughts  from  the 
marble  that  could  never  feel  to  the  man  and 
woman  so  tragically  circumstanced,  and  to  his 
relation  towards  them. 


BYE-WAYS 

A  doctor  is  so  swiftly  plunged  into  intimacy 
with  strangers.  To  the  sculptor  it  was  as  if  Fane 
held  the  keys  of  the  gates  of  life  and  death  for 
him;  as  if,  during  that  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the 
consulting-room,  the  doctor  had  decided,  almost  of 
his  own  volition,  that  death  should  cut  short  a  life 
of  work  and  of  love.  And  even  to  Fane  himself  it 
seemed  as  if  his  fiat  had  precipitated,  even  brought 
about,  a  tragedy  that  appealed  to  his  imagination 
with  peculiar  force.  His  position  towards  this 
curiously  interesting  girl  was  strange.  He  had 
seen  her  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  only,  and  now 
it  was  his  mission  to  cause  her  the  most  weary 
pain  that  she  might,  perhaps,  ever  know.  The 
opening  of  the  studio  door  startled  him,  and  his 
heart,  that  usually  beat  so  calmly,  throbbed  almost 
with  violence  as  Mrs  Brune  came  up  to  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  facing  him,  and  look- 
ing him  full  in  the  eyes  with  a  violence  of  interro- 
gation that  was  positively  startling.  "  What  is  it 
you  have  to  tell  me  ?  Reginald  says  you  have 
ordered  him  to  keep  quiet  —  that  you  wish  me  to 
help  you  in  —  in  something.  Is  he  ill  ?  May  he 
not  finish  his  commissions  ?  " 

"  He  is  ill,"  said  Gerard  Fane,  with  a  straight- 
forward frankness  that  surprised  himself. 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  his  face. 

"  Very  ill  ?  " 

41  Sit  down,"  the  doctor  said,  taking  her  hands 
and  gently  putting  her  into  a  chair. 


A  SILENT   GUARDIAN  299 

With  the  rapidity  of  intellect  peculiar  to  women, 
she  heard  in  those  two  words  the  whole  truth.  Her 
head  drooped  forward.  She  put  out  her  hands  as 
if  to  implore  Fane's  silence. 

"  Don't  speak,"  she  murmured.  "  Don't  say 
it;  I  know." 

He  looked  away.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  statue 
that  made  a  silent  third  in  their  sad  conference. 
How  its  attitude  suggested  that  of  a  stealthy 
listener,  bending  to  hear  the  more  distinctly  !  Its 
expressionless  eyes  met  his,  and  was  there  not  a 
light  in  them  ?  He  knew  there  was  not,  yet  he 
caught  himself  saying  mentally  :  — 

"  What  does  he  think  of  this  ?  "  and  wondering 
about  the  workings  of  a  soul  that  did  not,  could 
not,  exist. 

Presently  the  girl  moved  slightly,  and  said  :  — 

"  He  only  knew  this  for  certain  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Only  yesterday." 

"  Ah !  but  he  must  have  suspected  it  long  ago," 
—  she  pointed  towards  the  statue  — "  when  he 
began  that." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  Fane  said.  "  What  can 
that  marble  have  to  do  with  his  health  or  illness  ?  " 

"  When  we  first  began  to  love  each  other,"  she 
said,  "  he  began  to  work  on  that.  It  was  to  be 
his  marriage  gift  to  me,  my  guardian  angel.  He 
told  me  he  would  put  all  his  soul  into  it,  and  that 
sometimes  he  fancied,  if  he  died  before  me,  his 
soul  would  really  enter  into  that  statue  and  watch 


300  BYE-WAYS 

over  and  guard  me.  c  A  Silent  Guardian  '  he  has 
always  called  it.  He  must  have  known." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  Fane  said.  "  It  was  im- 
possible he  should." 

The  girl  stood  up.  The  tears  were  running 
over  her  face  now.  She  turned  towards  the  statue. 

"And  he  will  be  cold  —  cold  like  that!"  she 
cried  in  a  heart-breaking  voice.  u  His  eyes  will 
be  blind  and  his  hands  nerveless,  and  his  voice 
silent." 

She  suddenly  swayed  and  fainted  into  Fane's 
arms.  He  held  her  a  moment ;  and  when  he  laid 
her  down,  a  reluctance  to  let  the  slim  form,  lifeless 
though  it  was,  slip  out  of  his  grasp,  came  upon 
him.  He  remembered  the  previous  day,  the 
doomed  man  going  down  the  street  —  his  thought 
as  he  looked  from  the  window  of  his  consulting- 
room,  "  I  am  sorry  that  man  is  going  to  die." 

Now,  as  he  leant  over  the  white  girl,  he  whis- 
pered, forming  the  very  words  with  his  lips,  "  I  am 
not  sorry." 

And  the  statue  seemed  to  bend  and  to  listen. 


Ill 

Six  weeks  passed  away.  Winter  was  deepening. 
Through  the  gloom  and  fog  that  shrouded  London, 
Christmas  approached,  wrapped  in  seasonable 
snow.  The  dying  man  had  finished  his  work,  and 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  301 

a  strange  peace  stole  over  him.  Now,  when  he 
suffered,  when  his  body  shivered  and  tried  to 
shrink  away,  as  if  it  felt  the  cold  hands  of  death 
laid  upon  it,  he  looked  at  the  completed  statue,  and 
found  he  could  still  feel  joy.  There  had  always 
been  in  his  highly-strung,  sensitive  nature  an  ele- 
ment, so  fantastic  that  he  had  ever  striven  to 
conceal  it,  of  romance;  and  in  his  mind,  affected 
by  constant  pain,  by  many  sleepless  nights,  grew 
the  curious  idea  that  his  life,  as  it  ebbed  away  from 
him,  entered  into  his  creation.  As  he  became 
feeble,  he  imagined  that  the  man  he  had  formed 
towered  above  him  in  more  God-like  strength,  that 
light  flowed  into  the  sightless  eyes,  that  the  marble 
muscles  were  tense  with  vigour,  that  a  soul  was 
born  in  the  thing  which  had  been  soulless.  The 
theory,  held  by  so  many,  of  re-incarnation  upon 
earth,  took  root  in  his  mind,  and  he  came  to  be- 
lieve that,  at  the  moment  of  death,  he  would  pass 
into  his  work  and  live  again,  unconscious,  it  might 
be,  of  his  former  existence.  He  loved  the  statue 
as  one  might  love  a  breathing  man  ;  but  he  seldom 
spoke  of  his  fancies,  even  to  Sydney. 

Only,  he  sometimes  said  to  her,  pointing  to  his 
work  :  — 

"  You  will  never  be  alone,  unprotected,  while 
he  is  there." 

And  she  tried  to  smile  through  the  tears  she 
could  not  always  keep  back. 

Gerard  Fane  was  often  with  them.      He  sunk 


302  BYE-WAYS 

the  specialist  in  the  friend,  and  not  a  day  passed 
without  a  visit  from  him  to  the  great  studio,  in 
which  the  sculptor  and  his  wife  almost  lived. 

He  was  unwearied  in  his  attendance  upon  the 
sick  man,  unwavering  in  his  attempts  to  soothe  his 
sufferings.  But,  in  reality,  and  almost  against  his 
will,  the  doctor  numbered  each  breath  his  patient 
drew,  noted  with  a  furious  eagerness  each  sign  of 
failing  vitality,  bent  his  ear  to  catch  every  softest 
note  in  the  prolonged  diminuendo  of  this  human 
symphony. 

When  Fane  saw  Mrs  Brune  leaning  over  her 
husband,  touching  the  damp  brow  with  her  cool, 
soft  fingers,  or  the  dry,  parched  lips  with  her  soft, 
rosy  lips,  he  turned  away  in  a  sick  fury,  and  said 
to  himself:  — 

"  He  is  dying,  he  is  dying.  It  will  soon  be 
over." 

For  with  a  desperate  love  had  entered  into  him 
a  desperate  jealousy,  and  even  while  he  ministered 
to  Brune  he  hated  him. 

And  the  statue,  with  blind  eyes,  observed  the 
drama  enacted  by  those  three  people,  the  two  men 
and  the  woman,  till  the  curtain  fell  and  one  of  the 
actors  made  his  final  exit. 

Fane's  nerves  still  played  him  tricks  sometimes. 
He  could  not  look  at  the  statue  without  a  shudder; 
and  while  Brune  imaginatively  read  into  the  marble 
face  love  and  protection,  the  doctor  saw  there 
menace  and  hatred.  He  came  to  feel  almost 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  303 

jealous  of  the  statue,  because  Sydney  loved  it  and 
fell  in  with  her  husband's  fancy  that  his  life  was 
fast  ebbing  into  and  vitalising  the  marble  limbs, 
that  his  soul  would  watch  her  from  the  eyes  that 
were  now  without  expression  and  thought. 

When  Fane  entered  the  studio,  he  always  invol- 
untarily cast  a  glance  at  the  white  figure  —  at  first, 
a  glance  of  shuddering  distaste,  then,  as  he  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  his  love  for  Sydney,  a  glance  of 
defiance,  of  challenge. 

One  evening,  after  a  day  of  many  appointments 
and  much  mental  stress  and  strain,  he  drove  up 
to  Ilbury  Road,  was  admitted,  and  shown  as  usual 
into  the  studio.  He  found  it  empty.  Only  the 
statue  greeted  him  silently  in  the  soft  lamplight, 
that  scarcely  accomplished  more  than  the  defining 
of  the  gloom. 

"  My  master  is  upstairs,  sir,"  said  the  footman. 
"  I  will  tell  him  you  are  here." 

In  a  moment  Sydney  entered,  with  a  lagging 
step  and  pale  cheeks.  Without  thinking  of  the 
usual  polite  form  of  greeting,  she  said  to  Fane, 
"  He  is  much  worse  to-day.  There  is  a  change  in 
him,  a  horrible  change.  Dr  Fane,  just  now  when 
I  was  talking  to  him  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was 
a  long  way  ofF.  I  caught  hold  of  his  hands  to  re- 
assure myself.  I  held  them.  I  heard  him  speaking, 
but  it  was  as  if  his  words  came  from  a  distance. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  He  is  not  —  he  is  not  —  " 

She  looked  the  word  he  could  not  speak. 


304  BYE-WAYS 

Fane  made  her  sit  down. 

"  I  will  go  to  him  immediately,"  he  said.  "  I 
may  be  able  to  do  something." 

"  Yes,  go  —  do  go  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  feverish 
excitement. 

Then  suddenly  she  sprang  up,  and  seizing  his 
hands  with  hers,  she  said  in  a  piercing  voice  :  "  You 
are  a  great  doctor.  Surely  —  surely  you  can  keep 
this  one  life  for  me  a  little  longer." 

As  they  stood,  Fane  was  facing  the  statue,  which 
was  at  her  back,  and  while  she  spoke  his  eyes  were 
drawn  from  the  woman  he  loved  to  the  marble 
thing  he  senselessly  hated.  It  struck  him  that  a 
ghastly  change  had  stolen  over  it.  A  sudden  flicker 
of  absolute  life  surely  infused  it,  quickened  it  even 
while  she  spoke,  stole  through  the  limbs  one  by 
one,  welled  up  to  the  eyes  as  light  pierces  from  a 
depth,  flowed  through  all  the  marble.  A  pulse 
beat  in  the  dead,  cold  heart.  A  mind  rippled  into 
the  rigid,  watching  face.  There  was  no  absolute 
movement,  and  yet  there  was  the  sense  of  stir. 
Fane,  absorbed  in  horror,  seemed  to  watch  an  act 
of  creation,  to  see  life  poured  from  some  invisible 
and  unknown  source  into  the  bodily  chamber  that 
had  been  void  and  dark. 

Motionless  he  saw  the  statue  dead ;  motionless 
he  saw  the  statue  live. 

He  drew  his  hands  from  Sydney's.  He  was  too 
powerfully  impressed  to  speak,  but  she  looked  up 
into  his  face,  turned,  and  followed  his  eyes. 


A   SILENT    GUARDIAN  305 

She,  too,  observed  the  change,  for  her  lips  parted, 
and  a  wild  amazement  shone  in  her  eyes.  Then  she 
touched  Fane's  arm,  and  whispered,  rather  in  awe 
than  in  horror,  "  Go  —  go  to  him.  See  if  anything 
has  happened.  I  will  stay  and  watch  here." 

With  a  hushed  tread  Fane  left  the  studio,  passed 
through  the  hall,  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  sculptor's 
room.  Outside  the  door  he  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
He  was  trembling.  He  heard  a  clock  ticking  within. 
It  sounded  very  loud,  like  a  hammer  beating  in 
his  ears.  He  pushed  the  door  open  at  length,  and 
entered.  Brune's  tall  figure  was  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, bowed  over  a  table  on  which  lay  an  open 
Art  magazine. 

His  head  lay  hidden  on  his  arms,  which  were 
crossed. 

Fane  raised  the  face  and  turned  it  up  towards 
him. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  dead  man. 

He  looked  at  it,  and  smiled. 

Then  he  stole  down  again  to  the  studio,  where 
Sydney  was  still  standing. 

"Yes  ?  "  she  said  interrogatively,  as  he  entered. 

"  He  is  dead,"  Fane  answered. 

She  only  bowed  her  head,  as  if  in  assent.  She 
stood  a  moment,  then  she  turned  her  tearless  eyes 
to  him,  and  said  :  — 

u  Why  could  not  you  save  him  ? " 

"  Because  I  am  human,"  Fane  answered. 

"  And  we  did  not  say  good-bye,"  she  said. 


306  BYE-WAYS 

Fane  was  strung  up.  Conflicting  feelings  found 
a  wild  playground  in  his  soul.  His  nerves  were  in  a 
state  of  abnormal  excitement,  and  something  seemed 
to  let  go  in  him  —  the  something  that  holds  us  back, 
normally,  from  mad  follies.  He  suddenly  caught 
Sydney's  hand,  and  in  a  choked  voice  said  :  — 

"  He  is  dead.     Think  a  little  of  the  Irving." 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering. 

"  Think  of  the  living  that  love  you.  He  neither 
hates  nor  loves  any  more.  Sydney  !  Sydney  !  " 

As  she  understood  his  meaning  she  wrung  her 
hand  out  of  his,  and  said,  as  one  trying  to  clear  the 
road  for  reason  :  — 

"  You  love  me,  and  he  bought  you  to  keep  him 
alive.  Why,  then  —  " 

A  sick,  white  change  came  over  her  face. 

"  Sydney  !   Sydney  !  "  he  said. 

"  Why,  then  he  bought  death  from  you.     Ah  !  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  bell,  and  kept  it  there 
till  the  servant  hurried  in. 

"  Show  Dr  Fane  out,"  she  said.  "  He  will  not 
come  here  again." 

And  Fane,  seeing  the  uselessness  of  protest, 
ready  to  strike  himself  for  his  folly,  went  without 
a  word.  Only,  as  he  went,  he  cast  one  look  at 
the  statue.  Was  there  not  the  flicker  of  a  smile 
in  its  marble  eyes  ? 


A  SILENT   GUARDIAN  307 


IV 

PEOPLE  said  Dr  Gerard  Fane  was  over-working, 
that  he  was  not  himself.  His  manner  to  patients 
was  sometimes  very  strange,  brusque,  impatient, 
intolerant.  A  brutality  stole  over  him,  and  im- 
pressed the  world  that  went  to  him  for  healing  very 
unfavourably.  The  ills  of  humanity  rendered  him 
now  sarcastic  instead  of  pitiful,  a  fatal  attitude  of 
mind  for  a  physician  to  adopt ;  and  he  was  even 
known  to  pronounce  on  sufferers  sentence  of  death 
with  a  callous  indifference  that  was  inhuman  as 
well  as  impolitic.  As  the  weeks  went  by,  his 
reception-room  became  less  crowded  than  of  old. 
There  were  even  moments  in  his  day  when  he  had 
leisure  to  sit  down  and  think,  to  give  a  rein  to  his 
mood  of  impotent  misery  and  despair.  Sydney  had 
never  consented  to  receive  him  again.  Woman-like 
—  for  she  could  be  extravagantly  yet  calmly  un- 
reasonable —  she  had  clung  to  the  idea  that  Fane 
had  hastened,  if  not  actually  brought  about,  her 
husband's  death  by  his  treatment.  She  made  no 
accusation.  She  simply  closed  her  doors  upon  him, 
She  had  a  horror  of  him,  which  never  left  her. 

Again  and  again  Fane  called.  She  was  always 
denied  to  him.  Then  he  met  her  in  the  street. 
She  cut  him.  He  spoke  to  her.  She  passed  on 
without  a  reply.  At  last  a  dull  fury  took  posses- 
sion of  him.  Her  treatment  of  him  was  flagrantly 


3o8  BYE-WAYS 

unjust.  He  had  wished  the  sculptor  to  die,  but  he 
had  allowed  nature  to  accomplish  her  designs  un- 
aided, even  to  some  extent  hampered  and  hindered 
by  his  medical  skill  and  care.  He  loved  Sydney 
with  the  violence  of  a  man  whose  emotions  had 
been  sedulously  repressed  through  youth,  vanquished 
but  not  killed  by  ambition,  and  the  need  to  work 
for  the  realisation  of  that  ambition.  The  tumults 
of  early  manhood,  never  given  fair  play,  now  raged 
in  his  breast,  from  which  they  should  have  been 
long  since  expelled,  and  played  havoc  with  every 
creed  of  sense,  and  every  built-up  theory  of  wisdom 
and  experience.  Fane  became  by  degrees  a  mono- 
maniac. 

He  brooded  incessantly  over  his  developed  but 
starved  passion,  over  the  thought  that  Sydney 
chose  to  believe  him  a  murderer.  At  first,  when 
he  was  trying  day  after  day  to  see  her,  he  clung 
to  his  love  for  her  ;  but  when  he  found  her  ob- 
durate, set  upon  wronging  him  in  her  thought, 
his  passion,  verging  towards  despair,  changed,  and 
was  coloured  with  hatred.  By  degrees  he  came 
to  dwell  more  upon  the  injury  done  to  him  by  her 
suspicion  than  upon  his  love  of  her,  and  then 
it  was  that  a  certain  wildness  crept  into  his  man- 
ner, and  alarmed  or  puzzled  those  who  consulted 
him. 

That  his  career  was  going  to  the  dogs  Fane 
understood,  but  he  did  not  care.  The  vision  of 
Sydney  was  always  before  him.  He  was  for  ever 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  309 

plotting  and  planning  to  be  with  her  alone  — 
against  her  will  or  not,  it  was  nothing  to  him. 
And  when  he  was  alone  with  her,  what  then  ? 

He  would  know  how  to  act. 

It  was  just  in  the  dawn  of  the  spring  season 
over  London  that  further  inaction  became  insup- 
portable to  him.  One  evening,  after  a  day  of  list- 
less inactivity  spent  in  waiting  for  the  patients  who 
no  longer  came  in  crowds  to  his  door,  he  put  on 
his  hat  and  walked  from  Mayfair  to  Kensington, 
vaguely,  yet  with  intention.  He  looked  calm,  even 
absent  ;  but  he  was  a  desperate  man.  All  fear  of 
what  the  world  thinks  or  says,  all  consideration  of 
outward  circumstances  and  their  relation  to  worldly 
happiness,  had  died  within  him.  He  was  entirely 
abstracted  and  self-centred. 

He  reached  the  broad  thoroughfare  of  Ilbury 
Road,  with  its  line  of  artistic  red  houses,  detached 
and  standing  in  their  gardens.  The  darkness  was 
falling  as  he  turned  into  it  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  opposite  the  house  with  the  big  studio  in 
which  he  was  once  a  welcome  visitor.  There  was 
a  light  in  one  of  the  bedroom  windows  and  in  the 
hall,  and  presently,  as  Fane  watched,  a  brougham 
drove  up  to  the  door.  It  waited  a  few  moments 
before  the  house,  then  some  one  entered  the  car- 
riage. The  door  was  banged ;  the  horse  moved 
on.  Through  the  windows  Fane  saw  a  woman's 
face,  pale,  against  the  pane.  It  was  the  face  of 
Sydney.  For  a  moment  he  thought  he  would  call 


3io  BYE-WAYS 

to  the  coachman  to  stop.  Then  he  restrained 
himself,  and  again  walked  up  and  down,  waiting. 
She  must  return  presently.  He  would  speak  to 
her  as  she  was  getting  out  of  the  carriage.  He 
would  force  her  to  receive  him. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  his  plans  were  altered  by 
an  event  which  took  place.  The  house  door 
opened,  and  the  footman  came  out  with  a  handful 
of  letters  for  the  post.  The  pillar-box  was  very 
near,  and  the  man  carelessly  left  the  hall  door  on 
the  jar  while  he  walked  down  the  road.  Fane 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hall  that  he  knew  so  well. 
A  step,  and  he  could  be  in  the  house.  He  hesi- 
tated. He  looked  down  the  road.  The  man  had 
his  back  turned,  and  was  putting  the  letters  into 
the  box.  Fane  slipped  into  the  garden,  up  the 
steps,  through  the  door.  The  hall  was  empty. 
At  his  right  was  the  passage  leading  to  the  studio. 
He  stole  down  it,  and  tried  the  door.  It  opened. 
In  the  darkness  the  heavy  curtain  blew  against  his 
face.  In  another  instant  he  closed  the  door  softly 
at  his  back,  and  stood  alone  in  the  wide  space  and 
the  blackness.  Here  there  was  not  a  glimmer  of 
light.  Thick  curtains  fell  over  the  windows. 
No  fire  burned  upon  the  hearth.  There  was  no 
sound  except  when  a  carriage  occasionally  rolled 
down  the  road,  and  even  then  the  wheels  sounded 
distant. 

The  silence  and  darkness  had  their  effect  upon 
Fane.  He  had  done  a  desperate  thing  ;  but,  until 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  311 

he  found  himself  alone  in  the  vacant  studio,  he  had 
not  fully  realised  the  madness  of  his  conduct,  and 
how  it  would  appear  to  the  world.  After  the  first 
moments  of  solitude  had  passed  he  came  to  him- 
self a  little,  and  half  opened  the  door  with  the 
intention  of  stealing  out ;  but  he  heard  steps  in 
the  hall,  and  shrank  back  again  like  a  guilty  crea- 
ture. He  must  wait,  at  least,  until  the  household 
retired  to  rest. 

And,  waiting,  the  old,  haunting  thoughts  came 
back  to  assail  him  once  more.  He  began  to 
brood  over  Sydney's  cruel  treatment  of  him,  over 
her  vile  suspicions.  Here,  in  the  atmosphere 
which  he  knew  so  well  —  for  a  faint,  strange  per- 
fume always  lingered  about  the  studio,  and  gave 
to  it  the  subtle  sense  of  life  which  certain  per- 
fumes can  impart  —  his  emotions  were  gradually 
quickened  to  fury.  He  recalled  the  days  of  his 
intimacy  with  the  sculptor,  of  his  unrestrained  con- 
verse with  Sydney.  He  recalled  his  care  for  the  in- 
valid, persevered  in,  despite  his  passion,  to  the  end. 
And  then  his  thought  fastened  upon  the  statue, 
which,  strange  to  say,  he  had  almost  forgotten. 
The  statue  ! 

It  must  be  there,  with  him,  in  the  darkness, 
staring  with  those  white  eyes  in  which  he  had  seen 
a  soul  flicker. 

As  the  recollection  of  it  came  to  him,  he  trem- 
bled, leaning  against  the  wall. 

He  was  in  one  of  those  states  of  acute  mental 


3i2  BYE-WAYS 

tension  in  which  the  mind  becomes  so  easily  the 
prey  of  the  wildest  fantasies,  and  slowly,  labori- 
ously, he  began  to  frame  a  connection  between 
the  lifeless  marble  creature  and  his  own  dreary 
trouble. 

Because  of  one  moment  of  folly  Sydney  treated 
him  as  a  pariah,  as  a  criminal.  Her  gentle  nature 
had  been  transformed  suddenly. 

By  what  subtle  influence  ? 

Fane  remembered  the  day  of  his  first  visit  to 
Ilbury  Road,  and  his  curious  imagination  that  the 
statue  recognised  and  hated  him. 

Had  that  hatred  prompted  action  ?  Was  there 
a  devil  lurking  in  the  white,  cold  marble  to  work 
his  ruin  ?  When  Sydney  sent  him  out  of  her 
presence  for  ever,  the  watching  face  had  seemed 
to  smile. 

Fane  set  his  teeth  in  the  darkness.  He  was  no 
longer  sane.  He  was  possessed.  The  tragedy  of 
thought  within  him  invited  him  to  the  execution  of 
another  tragedy.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  with 
the  rehearsing  action  of  one  meditating  a  blow. 

His  hand  fell  upon  an  oak  table  that  stood 
against  the  wall,  and  hit  on  something  smooth  and 
cold.  It  was  a  long  Oriental  dagger  that  the  dead 
sculptor  had  brought  from  the  East.  Fane's  fin- 
gers closed  on  it  mechanically.  The  frigid  steel 
thrilled  his  hot  palm,  and  a  pulse  in  his  forehead 
started  beating  till  there  was  a  dull,  senseless  music 
in  his  ears  that  irritated  him, 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  313 

He  wanted  to  listen  for  the  return  of  Sydney's 
carriage. 

His  soul  was  ablaze  with  defiance.  He  was  alone 
in  the  darkness  with  his  enemy ;  the  cold,  deadly, 
blind,  pulseless  thing  that  yet  was  alive ;  the  silent 
thing  that  had  yet  whispered  malign  accusations 
of  him  to  the  woman  he  loved  ;  the  nerveless  thing 
that  poisoned  a  beautiful  mind  against  him,  that 
stole  the  music  from  his  harp  of  life  and  let  loose 
the  winds  upon  his  summer. 

His  fingers  closed  more  tightly,  more  feverishly 
upon  the  slippery  steel. 

Sydney  actually  thought,  or  strove  to  think,  him 
a  criminal.  What  if  he  should  earn  the  title  ?  A 
sound  as  of  the  sea  beating  was  in  his  ears,  and 
flashes  of  strange  light  seem  to  leap  to  his  vision. 
What  would  a  man  worth  the  name  do  to  his 
enemy  ? 

And  he  and  his  enemy  were  shut  up  alone  to- 
gether. 

He  drew  himself  up  straight  and  steadied  him- 
self against  the  wall,  peering  through  the  blackness 
in  the  direction  of  the  statue. 

And,  as  he  did  so,  there  seemed  to  steal  into  the 
atmosphere  the  breath  of  another  living  presence. 
He  could  fancy  he  heard  the  pulse  of  another  heart 
beating  near  to  his.  The  sensation  increased  upon 
him  powerfully  until  suspicion  grew  into  conviction. 

His  intention  had  subtly  communicated  itself  to 
the  thing  he  could  not  see. 


BYE-WAYS 

He  knew  it  was  on  guard. 

There  was  no  actual  sound,  no  movement,  but 
the  atmosphere  became  charged  by  degrees  with  a 
deadly,  numbing  cold,  like  the  breath  of  frost  in 
the  air.  A  chill  ran  through  Fane's  blood.  A 
sluggish  terror  began  to  steal  over  him,  folding  him 
for  the  moment  in  a  strange  inertia  of  mind  and  of 
body.  A  creeping  paralysis  crawled  upon  his 
senses,  like  the  paralysis  of  nightmare  that  en- 
velops the  dreamer.  He  opened  his  lips  to  speak, 
but  they  chattered  soundlessly.  Mechanically  his 
hand  clutched  the  thin,  sharp  steel  of  the  dagger. 

His  enemy  —  then  Sydney. 

He  would  not  be  a  coward.  He  struggled 
against  the  horror  that  was  upon  him. 

And  still  the  cold  increased,  and  the  personality 
of  Fane's  invisible  companion  seemed  to  develop  in 
power.  There  was  a  sort  of  silent  violence  in 
the  hidden  room,  as  if  a  noiseless  combat  were 
taking  place.  Waves  of  darkness  were  stirred  into 
motion ;  and  Fane,  as  a  man  is  drawn  by  the 
retreating  tides  of  the  sea  out  and  away,  was 
drawn  from  the  wall  where  he  had  been  crouching. 

He  stole  along  the  floor,  the  dagger  held  in  his 
right  hand,  his  heart  barely  beating,  his  lips  white 
—  nearer,  nearer  to  his  enemy. 

He  counted  each  step,  until  he  was  enfolded  in 
the  inmost  circle  of  that  deadly  frost  emanating 
from  the  blackness  before  him. 

Then,  with  a  hoarse  cry,  he  lifted  his  arm  and 


A   SILENT   GUARDIAN  315 

sprang  forward  and  upward,  dashing  the  dagger 
down  as  one  plunging  it  through  a  human  heart. 

The  cry  died  suddenly  into  silence. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall. 

It  reached  the  ears  of  the  servants  below  stairs. 

The  footman  took  a  light,  and,  with  a  scared 
face,  went  hesitatingly  to  the  studio  door,  paused 
outside  and  listened  while  the  female  servants  hud- 
dled in  the  passage. 

The  heavy  silence  succeeding  the  strange  sound 
appalled  them,  but  at  length  the  man  thrust  the 
door  open  and  peered  in. 

The  light  from  the  candle  flickered  merrily 
upon  Fane's  bowed  figure,  huddled  face  down- 
wards upon  the  floor. 

His  neck  was  broken. 

The  statue,  that  was  the  dead  sculptor's  last 
earthly  achievement,  stood  as  if  watching  over 
him.  But  it  was  no  longer  perfect  and  complete. 

Some  splinters  of  marble  had  been  struck  from 
the  left  breast,  and  among  them,  on  the  smooth 
parquet,  lay  a  bent  Oriental  dagger. 


A  BOUDOIR  BOY 


A   BOUDOIR  BOY 


"  IT  is  so  impossible  to  be  young,"  Claude  Melville 
said  very  wearily,  and  with  his  little  air  of  played- 
out  indifference.  He  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  as 
always,  and  wore  a  dark  red  smoking-suit  that,  he 
thought,  went  excellently  with  his  black  eyes  and 
swarthy  complexion. 

His  father  had  been  a  blue-eyed  Saxon  giant, 
his  mother  a  pretty  Kentish  woman,  with  an  apple- 
blossom  complexion  and  sunny  hair ;  yet  he 
managed  to  look  exquisitely  Turkish,  and  thought 
himself  a  clever  boy  for  so  doing.  But  then  he 
always  thought  himself  clever.  He  had  cultivated 
this  conception  of  himself  until  it  had  become  a 
confirmed  habit  of  mind.  On  his  head  was  a  fez 
with  a  tassel,  and  he  was  sitting  upon  the  hearth- 
rug with  his  long  legs  crossed  meditatively.  His 
room  was  dimly  lit,  and  had  an  aspect  of  divans. 
Attar  of  roses  scented  the  air.  A  fire  was  burning, 
although  it  was  a  spring  evening  and  not  cold. 
London  roared  faintly  in  the  distance,  like  a  lion 
at  a  far-away  evening  party. 

"  It  is  so  impossible  to  be  young,"  Claude  re- 
peated, without  emphasis.  "  I  was  middle-aged  at 


320  BYE-WAYS 

ten.  Now  I  am  twenty-two,  and  have  done  every- 
thing I  ought  not  to  have  done,  I  feel  that  life 
has  become  altogether  improbable.  Even  if  I  live 
until  I  am  seventy  —  the  correct  age  for  entering 
into  one'.s  dotage,  I  believe  —  I  cannot  expect  to 
have  a  second  childhood.  I  have  never  had  a  first." 

He  sighed.  It  seemed  so  hard  to  be  deprived  of 
one's  legal  dotage. 

His  friend,  Jimmy  Haddon,  looked  at  him  and 
laughed.  Jimmy  was  puffing  at  a  pipe.  His  pipe 
was  the  only  one  Claude  ever  allowed  to  be 
smoked  among  his  divans  and  his  roses. 

After  thoroughly  completing  his  laugh,  Jimmy 
remarked  :  — 

"  Would  you  like  to  take  a  lesson  in  the  art  of 
being  young  ?  " 

"  Immensely." 

"  I  know  somebody  who  could  give  you  one." 

"  Really,  Jimmy !  What  strange  people  you 
always  know  ;  curates,  and  women  who  have  never 
written  improper  novels,  and  all  sorts  of  beings 
who  seem  merely  mythical  to  the  rest  of  us  !  " 

"  This  is  not  a  curate." 

"Then  it  must  be  a  woman  who  has  never 
written  an  improper  novel." 

« It  is." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me  seriously  that  there 
is  such  a  person  ?  To  see  her  would  be  to  take 
what  Punch  calls  a  pre-historic  peep.  She  must 
be  ingeniously  old." 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  321 

"  She  is  sixty-four,  and  she  is  my  aunt." 

"  How  beautiful  of  her.  I  am  an  only  child,  so 
I  can  never  be  an  uncle.  It  is  one  of  my  lasting 
regrets,  although  I  daresay  that  profession  is  terribly 
overcrowded  like  the  others.  But  why  is  she  sixty- 
four  ?  It  seems  a  risky  thing  for  a  woman  to  be  ?  " 

"  She  takes  the  risk  without  thinking  at  all 
about  it." 

"  She  must  be  very  daring." 

"  No ;  she  's  only  completely  natural." 

"  Natural.     What  is  that  ?  " 

Jimmy  laughed  again.  He  was  fond  of  Claude, 
but  he  and  Claude  met  so  often  chiefly  because 
they  were  extremes.  Jimmy  was  a  handsome 
athlete,  who  had  been  called  to  the  bar,  and  per- 
sistently played  cricket  or  football  whenever  the 
courts  were  sitting.  He  was  cursed  with  a  large 
private  income,  which  he  spent  royally,  and  blessed 
with  a  good  heart.  Once  he  had  appeared  for  the 
defence  in  a  divorce  case,  which  —  lasting  longer 
than  he  had  anticipated,  owing  to  the  obvious 
guilt  of  all  parties  concerned  in  it,  and  the  con- 
sequent difficulty  of  getting  an  innocent  jury  to 
agree  about  a  verdict  —  had  cost  him  a  cricket 
match.  Since  then  he  had  looked  upon  the  law 
in  the  legendary  way,  as  an  ass,  and  spent  most 
of  his  time  in  exercising  his  muscles.  In  the 
intervals  of  leisure  which  he  allowed  himself  from 
sports  and  pastimes,  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  Claude, 
who  amused  him,  and  whom  he  never  bored.  He 


322  BYE-WAYS 

called  him  a  boudoir  boy,  but  had  a  real  liking  fot 
him,  nevertheless,  and  sometimes  longed  to  wake 
him  up,  and  separate  him  from  the  absurd  chiffons 
with  which  he  occupied  his  time.  Now  he  laughed 
at  him  openly,  and  Claude  did  not  mind  in  the 
least.  They  were  really  friends,  however  prepos- 
terous such  a  friendship  might  seem. 

"  What  is  that,?  Well  —  my  aunt.  When  you 
see  her  you  will  understand  thoroughly." 

"  Does  she  live  in  Park  Lane  or  in  Clapham  ?  " 

"  She  lives  in  the  country,  in  Northamptonshire, 
is  very  well  off,  and  has  a  place  of  her  own." 

"  And  a  husband  ?  " 

"  No.  She  is  a  prosperous  spinster,  dines  the 
local  cricket  team  once  a  year,  keeps  the  church 
going,  knows  all  the  poor  people,  and  all  the  rich 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  has  only  one  fad." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  She  always  wears  her  hair  powdered.  Come 
down  and  stay  with  her,  and  she  will  teach  you  to 
be  young." 

"  Well  —  but  I  am  afraid  she  will  work  me  very 
hard." 

"  Not  she.     You  would  like  a  new  experience." 

Claude  yawned,  and  blinked  his  long  dark  eyes 
in  a  carefully  Eastern  manner. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  such  thing  left  for  me," 
he  said  with  an  elaborate  dreariness.  "  Still,  if 
your  aunt  will  invite  me,  I  will  come.  Of  course 
you  wifi  accompany  me.  I  must  have  a  chaperon." 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  323 

"  Of  course." 

"  Ah  !  "  Claude  said,  as  a  footman  came  softly 
into  the  room, "  here  is  our  absinthe.  Now,  Jimmy, 
please  do  forget  your  horrible  football,  and  I  will 
teach  you  to  be  decadent." 

"  As  my  aunt  will  teach  you  to  be  young  — you 
old  boy." 

II 

"MR  HADDON  has  left,  sir,"  said  the  footman, 
standing  by  Claude's  bedside  in  the  detached  man- 
ner of  the  well-bred  domestic.  "  Here  is  a  note 
for  you,  sir ;  I  was  to  give  it  you  the  first  thing." 

And  he  handed  it  on  a  salver. 

Claude  stretched  out  his  thin  white  arm  and  took 
it,  without  manifesting  any  of  the  surprise  that  he 
felt.  When  the  footman  had  gone,  he  poured  out 
a  cup  of  tea  from  the  silver  teapot  that  stood  on  a 
small  table  at  his  elbow,  sipped  it,  and  quietly 
opened  the  square  envelope.  The  Northampton- 
shire sun  was  pouring  in  with  a  countrified  ardour 
through  the  bedroom  window.  Outside  the  birds 
twittered  in  Miss  Haddon's  cherished  garden.  For 
Claude  had  come  down  at  that  contented  spin- 
ster's invitation  to  spend  a  week  with  her,  bringing 
Jimmy  as  chaperon,  and  this  was  the  very  first 
morning  of  his  visit.  Now  he  learnt  that  his 
chaperon  had  already  "  left,"  possibly  to  be  a 
"  half-back,"  or  something  equally  ridiculous,  at  a 


324  BYE-WAYS 

local  football  match  in  a  neighbouring  village. 
Claude  spread  the  note  out  and  read  it,  while  the 
birds  chirped  to  the  very  manifest  spring. 

"  DEAR  BOY,  —  Good-bye,  and  good  luck  to  you.  I 
know  you  are  never  angry,  so  it  is  scarcely  worth  while 
to  tell  you  not  to  be.  I  am  off.  Back  in  a  week.  You 
will  learn  your  lesson  better  alone  with  Aunt  Kitty. 
There  is  no  absinthe  in  her  cellar,  but  she  knows  good 
champagne  from  bad.  You  will  be  all  right.  Study 
hard.  —  Yours  ever, 

JIM." 

Claude  drank  two  cups  of  tea  instead  of  his 
usual  one,  and  read  the  note  four  times.  Then 
he  lay  back,  wrapping  his  dressing-gown  —  a  fine 
specimen  of  Cairene  embroidery  —  closely  round 
him,  shut  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  go  to  sleep.  All 
he  said  to  himself  was  :  — 

"  Jimmy  writes  a  very  dull  letter." 

At  half-past  nine,  Miss  Haddon's  house  rever- 
berated in  a  hollow  manner  with  the  barbarous 
music  of  a  gong,  the  dressing-gong.  Claude  heard 
it  very  unsympathetically,  and  felt  rather  inclined 
merely  to  take  off  his  dressing-gown,  as  an  act  of 
mute  defiance,  and  go  deliberately  to  sleep,  instead 
of  getting  up  and  putting  things  on.  But  he  re- 
membered his  manners  wearily,  and  slid  out  of  bed 
and  into  a  carefully-warmed  bath  that  was  prepared 
in  the  neighbouring  dressing-room.  Having  com- 
pleted an  intricate  toilette,  and  tied  a  marvellously 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  325 

subtle  tie,  shot  with  rigorously  subdued,  but  volup- 
tuous colours,  he  sauntered  downstairs  in  time  to 
be  thoroughly  immersed  in  the  full  clamour  of  the 
second  —  or  breakfast  —  gong,  which  he  encountered 
in  the  hall. 

"  Why  will  people  wake  the  dead  merely  because 
they  are  going  to  eat  a  boiled  egg  and  a  bit  of 
toast  ? "  he  asked  himself  as  he  entered  the  break- 
fast-room. 

Miss  Haddon  was  standing  by  the  window,  read- 
ing letters  in  the  proper  English  manner.  The 
sun  lay  on  her  grey  hair,  which  she  wore  dressed 
high,  and  void  of  cap. 

"You  are  very  punctual,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 
u  I  was  going  to  send  up  to  know  whether  you 
would  prefer  to  breakfast  in  your  room.  My 
nephew  told  me  you  might  like  to.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  your  company.  Jimmy  has  run  away 
and  left  us  together,  I  find." 

u  Yes,  Jimmy  has  run  away,"  Claude  answered, 
beginning  slowly  to  feel  the  full  force  of  Jimmy's 
perfidy.  He  looked  at  Miss  Haddon's  cheerful, 
rosy  face,  and  bright  brown  eyes,  and  wondered 
whether  she  had  been  in  the  plot. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  bored,"  Miss  Haddon 
went  on,  as  they  sat  down  together,  the  intonation 
of  her  melodious  elderly  voice  seeming  to  dismiss 
the  supposition,  even  while  she  suggested  it.  "  But, 
indeed,  I  think  it  is  almost  impossible  to  be  bored 
in  the  country." 


326  BYE-WAYS 

Claude,  who  was  always  either  in  London  or 
Paris,  looked  frankly  astonished.  In  handing  him 
his  cup  of  tea,  Miss  Haddon  noticed  it. 

"  You  don't  agree  with  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  cannot  disagree,  at  least,"  he  said ;  u  because, 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  always  in  towns." 

"  Probably  you  are  happy  there  then,"  she  re- 
joined, with  a  briskness  that  was  agreeable,  because 
it  was  not  a  hideous  assumption,  like  the  geniality 
that  often  prevails,  fitfully,  at  Christmas  time. 

But  Claude  could  not  permit  his  hostess  to 
remain  comfortable  in  this  utterly  erroneous 
belief. 

"Oh,  please  — "  he  said,  with  gentle  rebuke, 
"  I  am  not  happy  anywhere." 

Miss  Haddon  glanced  at  him  with  a  gay  and 
whimsical,  but  decidedly  acute,  scrutiny. 

"Perhaps  you  are  too  young  to  be  happy,"  she 
said ;  "  you  have  not  suffered  enough." 

"  I  have  never  been  young,"  he  answered,  eating 
his  devilled  kidney  with  a  silent  pathos  of  persever- 
ance —  "  never." 

"  And  I  shall  never  be  old,  or,  at  any  rate,  feel 
old.  It  can't  be  done.  I  'm  sixty-four,  and  look 
it,  but  I  can't  cease  to  revel  in  details,  take  an  in- 
terest in  people,  and  regard  life  as  my  half-opened 
oyster.  It  is  a  pity  one  can't  go  on  living  till  one 
is  two  or  three  hundred  or  so.  There  is  so  much 
to  see  and  know.  Our  existence  in  the  world  is 
like  a  day  at  the  Stores.  We  have  to  go  away 


A    BOUDOIR    BOY  327 

before  we  have  been  into  a  quarter  of  the  different 
departments." 

"  I  don't  find  life  at  all  like  that.  I  have  seen 
all  the  departments  till  I  am  sick  of  them.  But 
perhaps  you  never  come  to  London  ?  " 

"  Every  year  for  three  months  to  see  my 
friends.  I  stay  at  an  hotel.  It  is  a  most  delight- 
ful time." 

Her  tone  was  warm  with  pleasant  memories. 
Claude  felt  himself  more  and  more  surprised. 

"  You  enjoy  the  country,  and  London  ?  "  he 
said. 

"I  enjoy  everything,"  said  Miss  Haddon.  "And 
surely  most  people  do." 

"  None  of  the  people  I  know  seem  to  enjoy 
anything  very  much.  They  try  everything,  of 
course.  That  is  one's  duty." 

"  Then  the  latest  literature  really  reflects  life,  I 
imagine,"  Miss  Haddon  said.  "  If  what  you  say 
is  true,  everything  includes  the  sins  as  well  as  the 
virtues.  I  have  often  wondered  whether  the  books 
that  I  have  thought  utterly  and  absurdly  false 
could  possibly  be  the  outcome  of  facts." 

"Such  as  what  books  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  '11  name  no  names.  The  authors  may 
be  your  personal  friends.  But  it  is  so  then  ?  In 
their  search  after  happiness  the  people  of  to-day, 
the  moderns,  give  the  warm  shoulder  to  vice  as 
well  as  to  virtue  ?  " 

"  They  ignore  nothing." 


328  BYE-WAYS 

41  Not  even  duty  ?  " 

"  Our  duty  is  to  ourselves,  and  can  never  be 
ignored." 

Miss  Haddon  tapped  a  boiled  egg  very  sharply 
on  its  head  with  a  spoon.  She  wondered  if  the 
action  were  a  performance  of  duty  to  herself  or  to 
the  egg. 

"That,  I  understand,"  she  remarked  briskly, 
"  is  the  doctrine  of  what  is  called  in  London  the 
young  decadent;  and  in  the  country  —  forgive  me 
—  sometimes  the  young  devil  of  the  day." 

"  I  am  decadent,  Miss  Haddon,"  Claude  said 
with  a  gentle  pride  that  was  not  wholly  un- 
graceful. 

The  elderly  lady  swept  him  with  a  bright  look 
of  fresh  and  healthly  interest. 

"  How  exciting,"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  mo- 
ment's decisive  pause,  but  with  a  completely 
natural  air.  "  You  are  the  first  I  have  seen.  For 
Jimmy  is  n't  one,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Jimmy  !  No.  He  plays  football,  and  eats 
cold  roast  beef  and  cheese  for  lunch." 

"  Do  tell  me  —  how  does  one  do  it  ?  " 

She  seemed  intensely  interested,  and  was  merrily 
munching  an  apple  grown  in  one  of  her  own 
orchards. 

Claude  raised  his  dark  eyebrows. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  How  does  one  become  a  decadent  ?  I  have 
heard  so  much  about  you  all,  about  your  clever- 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  329 

ness,  and  your  clothes,  and  the  things  you  writev 
and  draw,  and  smoke,  and  think,  and  —  and 
eat—" 

She  seemed  suddenly  struck  by  a  bright  idea. 

u  Oh,  Mr  Melville  !  "  she  exclaimed,  leaning 
forward  behind  the  great  silver  urn,  and  darting  at 
him  a  glance  of  imploring  earnestness,  "  will  you 
do  me  a  favour?  We  are  left  to  ourselves  for  a 
whole  week.  Teach  me,  teach  me  to  be  a 
decadent." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  going  to  teach  me  to 
be  yo  —  "  Claude  began,  and  stopped  just  in  time. 
"  I  mean  —  er  —  " 

He  paused,  and  they  gazed  at  each  other. 
There  was  meditation  in  the  boy's  eyes.  He  was 
wondering  seriously  whether  it  would  be  possible 
for  an  elderly  spinster  lady,  of  countrified  morals 
and  rural  procedure,  to  be  decadent.  She  was 
rather  stout,  too,  and  appeared  painfully  healthy. 

"  Will  you  ?  "  Miss  Haddon  breathed  across  the 
urn  and  the  teapot. 

"  Well,  we  might  try,"  Claude  answered  doubt- 
fully. 

He  was  remarking  to  himself:  — 

"  Poor,  dear  Jimmy !  He  certainly  does  n't 
understand  his  aunt !  " 

She  was  murmuring  in  her  mind:  "  I  have 
always  heard  they  have  no  sense  of  humour !  " 


330  BYE-WAYS 


III 

"  MR  MELVILLE,  Mr  Melville,"  cried  Miss 
Haddon's  voice  towards  evening  on  the  following 
day,  "  the  absinthe  has  arrived  !  " 

Claude  came  out  languidly  into  the  hall. 

"  Has  it  ?  "  he  said  dreamily. 

"Yes,  and  Paul  Verlaine's  poetry,  and  the  blue 
books  —  I  mean  the  yellow  books,  and  "  (rummag- 
ing in  a  just-opened  parcel)  "  yes,  here  are  two 
novels  by  Catulle  Mendez,  and  a  box  of  those 
rose-tipped  cigarettes.  Now,  what  ought  I  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  have  some  absinthe  instead  of  our  tea,  or 
what?" 

Claude  looked  at  her  with  a  momentary  sus- 
picion, but  her  grey  hair  crowned  an  eager  face 
decorated  with  an  honest  expression.  The  sus- 
picion was  lulled  to  rest. 

"  We  had  better  have  our  tea,"  he  answered 
slowly.  "  I  like  my  absinthe  about  an  hour  or  so 
before  dinner." 

"  Very  well.     Tea,  James,  and  muffins." 

The  butler  retired  with  fat  dignity,  but  wonder- 
ing not  a  little  at  the  unusual  vagaries  of  his  mis- 
tress. Miss  Haddon  and  Claude,  laden  with 
books,  repaired  to  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down 
by  the  fire.  Claude  placed  himself,  cross-legged, 
upon  a  cushion  on  the  floor.  The  box  of  rose- 
tipped  cigarettes  was  in  his  hand.  Miss  Haddon 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  331 

regarded  him  expectantly  from  her  sofa.  Her 
expression  seemed  continually  exclaiming, "  What 's 
to  be  done  now  ?  " 

The  boy  felt  that  this  was  not  right,  and  en- 
deavoured gently  to  correct  it. 

"  Please  try  to  be  a  little  —  a  —  " 

«  Yes  ?  " 

"A  little  more  restrained,"  be  said.  "What 
we  feel  about  life  is  that  it  should  never  be  crude. 
All  extremes  are  crude." 

"  What — -even  extremes  of  wickedness  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

u  Well,  certainly  extremes  of  goodness,  or 
happiness,  or  anything  of  that  kind.  When  one 
comes  to  think  of  it  seriously,  happiness  is  really 
absurd,  is  it  not  ?  Just  consider  how  preposterous 
what  is  called  a  happy  face  always  looks,  covered 
with  those  dreadful,  wrinkled  things  named  smiles, 
all  the  teeth  showing,  and  so  on.  I  know  you 
agree  with  me.  Happiness  drives  all  thought  out 
of  a  face,  and  distorts  the  features  in  a  most  pain- 
ful manner.  When  I* go  out  walking  on  a  Bank 
Holiday,  a  thing  I  seldom  do,  I  always  think  a 
cheerful  expression  the  most  degrading  of  all  ex- 
pressions. A  contented  clerk  disfigures  a  whole 
street  —  really." 

Miss  Haddon's  appearance  had  gradually  grown 
very  sombre  during  this  speech,  and  she  did  not 
brighten  up  on  the  approach  of  tea  and  muffins 
on  a  wicker  table  whimsical  with  little  shelves. 


332  BYE-WAYS 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  I  daresay 
happiness  is  unreasonable.  Ought  I  to  sit  on  the 
floor  too  ?  " 

Claude  deprecated  such  an  act  on  the  part  of  his 
hostess.  Sitting  on  the  floor  was  one  of  his  pet 
originalities,  and  he  hated  rivalry.  Besides,  Miss 
H addon  was  distinctly  too  stout  for  that  sort  of 
thing. 

"  I  do  it  because  I  feel  so  Turkish,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  Otherwise,  it  would  be  an  assumption, 
and  not  naive.  People  make  a  great  mistake  in 
fancying  the  decadent  is  unnatural.  If  anything, 
he  is  too  natural.  He  follows  his  whim.  The 
world  only  calls  us  natural  when  we  do  everything 
we  dislike.  If  Rossetti  had  played  football  every 
Saturday,  his  poetry  would  have  been  much  more 
read  in  England  than  it  has  been.  Yes,  please,  I 
will  have  another  muffin." 

«  But  I  think  I  feel  Turkish  too,"  Miss  Haddon 
said  calmly.  "  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  do.  I  ought  not 
to  resist  it ;  ought  I  ?  Otherwise  I  shall  be  flying 
in  the  face  of  your  beautiful  theories."  And  she 
squatted  down  on  the  floor  at  his  elbow. 

Claude  had  a  wonderful  purple  moment  of  acute 
irritation,  during  which  he  felt  strangely  natural. 
Miss  Haddon  did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  She 
went  on  bombarding  him  with  questions  in  a  cheery 
manner  until  he  began  to  be  rather  ill,  but  her  face 
never  lost  its  expression  of  grave  sadness,  a  strange, 
inexplicable  melancholy  that  was  not  in  the  least 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  333 

Bank  Holiday.  The  contrast  between  her  expres- 
sion and  her  voice  worried  Claude,  as  an  intelligent 
pantaloon  might  worry  a  clown.  He  felt  that 
something  was  wrong.  Either  face  or  voice  re- 
quired alteration.  And  then  questions  are  like 
death  —  extremely  irksome.  Besides,  he  found  it 
difficult  to  answer  many  of  them,  difficult  to  de- 
fine precisely  the  position  of  the  decadent,  his  in- 
tentions and  his  aims.  It  was  no  use  to  tell  Miss 
Haddon  that  he  did  n't  possess  either  the  one  or 
the  other.  Always  with  the  same  definitely  sad 
face,  the  same  definitely  cheerful  voice,  she  de- 
clined to  believe  him.  He  fidgeted  on  his  cushion^ 
and  his  Turkish  placidity  threatened  to  be  seriously 
disturbed. 

The  appearance  of  the  absinthe  created  a  diver- 
sion. Claude  arranged  a  glass  of  it,  much  diluted 
with  water,  for  the  benefit  of  his  hostess,  and  she 
began  to  sip  it  with  an  air  of  determined  reverence. 

"  It  tastes  like  the  smell  of  a  drag  hunt,"  she 
said  after  a  while. 

Claude's  gently-lifted  eyebrows  proclaimed  mis- 
apprehension. 

"  When  they  drag  a  trail  over  a  course  and 
satisfy  the  hounds  with  a  dead  rabbit  at  the  end  of 
it,"  she  explained. 

11  My  dear  lady,"  he  protested  plaintively. 
"  Really,  you  do  not  grasp  the  inner  meaning  of 
what  you  are  drinking.  Presently  the  most  perfect 
sensation  will  steal  over  you,  a  curious  happy  de- 


334  BYE-WAYS 

tachment  from  everything,  as  if  you  were  floating 
in  some  exquisite  element.  You  will  not  care 
what  happens,  or  what  —  " 

"  But  must  I  drink  it  all  before  I  feel  detached  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  It 's  really  so  very  nasty,  quite  dis- 
gusting to  the  taste.  Surely  you  think  so." 

"  I  drink  it  for  its  after-effect." 

"Is  it  like  a  good  act  that  costs  us  pain  at  the 
moment,  and  gives  us  the  pleasure  of  self-satisfac- 
tion ultimately  ?  " 

- "  I  don't  know,"  the  boy  exclaimed  abruptly. 
To  compare  absinthe  to  a  good  act  seemed  to  him 
quite  intolerable. 

He  let  his  rose-tipped  cigarette  go  out,  and  was 
glad  when  the  dressing  gong  sounded  in  the  hall. 

Miss  Haddon  sprang  up  from  the  floor  briskly. 

"  I  rather  admire  you  for  drinking  this  stuff,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  sure  you  do  it  to  mortify  the  flesh. 
A  Lenten  penance  out  of  Lent  is  most  invigorating 
to  the  mind." 

As  Claude  went  up  to  dress,  he  felt  as  if  he  never 
wished  to  touch  absinthe  again.  The  glitter  of  its 
personality  was  dulled  for  him  now  that  it  was 
looked  upon  as  merely  a  nasty  sort  of  medicine  to 
be  indulged  in  as  a  mortification  of  the  flesh,  like 
wearing  a  hair  shirt,  or  rejecting  meat  on  Fridays. 
He  found  Miss  Haddon  painfully  prosaic.  It 
seemed  almost  silly  to  be  a  decadent  in  her  com- 
pany. To  feel  Turkish  alone  was  graceful  and 
quaint,  almost  intellectual,  but  to  have  an  old  lady 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  335 

feeling  Turkish,  too,  and  squatting  on  the  floor  to 
emphasise  the  sensation,  was  tragic,  seemed  to  bring 
imbecility  very  near.  Claude  dressed  with  unusual 
agitation,  and  made  a  distinct  failure  of  his  tie. 

All  through  dinner  Miss  Haddon  talked  optimist- 
ically about  her  prospects  as  a  successful  decadent, 
much  as  if  she  were  discussing  her  future  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  or  as  the  editor  of  a  paper.  She 
calculated  that  at  her  present  rate  of  progress  she 
ought  to  be  almost  on  a  level  with  her  guest  by  the 
end  of  the  week,  and  spoke  hopefully  of  ceasing  to 
take  any  interest  in  the  ordinary  facts  of  life,  of 
learning  a  proper  contempt  for  all  healthy-minded 
humanity,  and  of  appreciating  at  its  proper  value 
what  seems  to  ordinary  people,  weak-kneed  affec- 
tion in  literature,  in  art,  and,  above  all,  in  move- 
ment and  in  appearance.  Her  bright  eyes  flashed 
upon  Claude  beneath  her  crown  of  powdered  hair, 
as  she  talked,  and  the  big  room  rang  with  her 
jovial  voice. 

The  boy  began  to  feel  exceedingly  confused. 
Yet  he  had  never  been  less  bored.  Miss  Haddon 
might  be  stout  and  sixty-four.  Nevertheless,  her 
net  personality  was  far  less  wearisome  than  that  of 
many  a  town-bred  sylph.  Unconsciously  Claude 
ate  with  a  hearty  appetite,  indulged  immoderately 
in  excellent  roast  beef,  and  even  swallowed  a 
beautifully-cooked  Spanish  onion  without  think- 
ing of  the  committal  of  a  crime.  During  dessert 
Miss  Haddon  gave  him  a  racy  description  of  a  rural 


336  BYE-WAYS 

cricket  match  and  of  the  supper  and  speeches  which 
followed  it,  and  he  found  himself  laughing  heartily 
and  wishing  he  had  been  there.  He  pulled  him- 
self up  short  with  a  sudden  sensation  of  horror, 
and  his  hostess  rose  to  go  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Shall  we  play  Halma  or  Ek  Bahr  ?  "  she  asked  ; 
11  or  would  they  be  out  of  order  ?  I  wish  par- 
ticularly to  conform  to  all  your  tenets." 

"  Dear  lady,  please,  we  have  no  tenets,"  he  pro- 
tested. "  Do  remember  that,  or  you  will  never 
become  what  you  wish.  But  I  do  not  care  for 
any  games." 

"  Then  shall  we  sit  down  and  each  read  a  volume 
of  the  l  Yellow  Book '  ?  " 

She  hastened  towards  a  table  to  find  copies  of 
that  work,  but  something  in  her  brisk  and  anxious 
movement  caused  Claude  to  exclaim  hurriedly  : 

"  Please  —  please  teach  me  Halma." 

That  night  he  went  up  to  bed  flushed  with 
triumph. 

Miss  Haddon  had  allowed  him  to  win  a  couple 
of  games.  Never  before  had  he  felt  so  absolutely 
certain  of  the  unusual  acuteness  of  his  intellect. 


IV 

THREE    days    later,   Miss    Haddon    and     Claude 
Melville  were  feeding  chickens  —  under  protest. 
u  I  mean  to  give  it  up,  of  course,"  the  former 


A    BOUDOIR    BOY  337 

said.  "  It 's  a  degrading  pursuit ;  it 's  almost  as 
bad  as  the  '  things  that  Jimmy  does,'  the  things 
that  give  him  such  a  marvellous  complexion  and 
keep  his  figure  so  magnificent." 

She  threw  a  handful  of  grain  to  the  frenzied 
denizens  of  the  enlarged  meat-safe  before  them, 
and  added  in  a  tone  of  pensive  reflectiveness  : 

"  Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  these  actions  which, 
as  you  have  taught  me,  are  unworthy  of  thinking 
people,  tend  to  make  the  body  so  beautiful,  the 
eyes  so  bright  and  clear,  the  cheeks  rose-tinted,  the 
limbs  straight  and  supple  ?  " 

All  the  time  that  she  was  speaking  her  glance 
crept  musingly  over  Claude's  tall,  but  weak-look- 
ing and  rather  flaccid  form,  seeming  to  pause  on 
his  thin  undeveloped  arms,  his  lanky  legs,  and  his 
slightly  yellow  face.  That  face  began  to  flush. 
She  sighed. 

"  There  must  be  something  radically  wrong  in 
the  scheme  of  the  universe,"  she  continued.  "  But, 
of  course,  one  ought  to  live  for  the  mind  and  for 
subtle  sensations,  even  though  they  do  make  one 
look  an  object." 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  chickens  now,  who  were 
fighting  like  feathered  furies,  pouncing,  clucking, 
running  for  safety,  grain  in  beak,  or,  with  a  fiery 
anxiety,  chasing  the  favoured  brethren  who  had 
secured  a  morsel  and  were  hoping  to  be  permitted 
to  swallow  it.  Claude  glanced  at  her  furtively 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  endeavoured, 


338  BYE-WAYS 

for  the  first   time  in  his  life,  to  stand  erect  and 
broaden  his  rather  narrow  chest. 

Silently  he  resolved  to  give  instructions  to  his 
tailor  not  to  spare  the  padding  in  his  future  coats. 
He"  was  glad,  too,  that  knee-breeches,  for  which 
he  had  occasionally  sighed,  had  not  come  into 
fashion  again.  After  all,  modern  dress  had  its 
little  advantages.  Miss  Haddon  was  still  scatter- 
ing grain,  rather  in  the  attitude  of  Millet's 
"  Sower"  and  still  talking  reflectively. 

"  We  must  try  to  convert  Jimmy,"  she  said. 
"  I  have  a  good  deal  of  influence  over  him,  Mr 
Melville.  We  must  try  to  make  him  more  like  you, 
more  thoughtful,  more  inactive,  more  frankly  sensual, 
more  fond  of  sofas,  in  the  future  than  he  has  been 
in  the  past.  Do  you  know,  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it, 
but  I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  seen  Jimmy  lying 
on  a  sofa.  Poor  Jimmy  !  Look  at  that  hen  !  She 
is  choking.  Hens  gulp  their  food  so  !  And  then, 
he 's  inclined  to  be  persistently  unselfish.  That 
must  be  stopped  too.  I  have  learnt  from  you  that 
to  be  decadent  one  must  be  acutely  and  untiringly 
selfish.  The  blessings  of  selfishness  !  What  a 
volume  might  be  written  upon  them  !  Mr  Melville, 
all  chickens  must  be  decadent,  for  all  chickens  are 
entirely  selfish.  It  is  strange  to  think  that  the 
average  fowl  is  more  advanced  in  ethics  —  is  it 
ethics  I  mean  ?  —  than  the  average  man  or  woman, 
is  it  not  ?  And  we  ate  a  decadent  at  dinner  last 
night.  I  feel  almost  like  a  cannibal." 


A   BOUDOIR   BOY  339 

She  threw  away  the  last  grain,  and  was  silent. 
But  suddenly  Claude  spoke. 

"  Miss  Haddon,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had 
never  sounded  so  boyish  to  her  before,  "  you  have 
been  laughing  at  me  for  nearly  a  week."  He 
paused,  then  he  went  on,  rather  unevenly,  in  the 
up-and-down  tones  induced  by  stifled  excitement, 
11  and  I  have  never  found  it  out  until  this  moment. 
I  suppose  you  think  me  a  great  fool.  I  daresay 
I  have  been  one.  But  please  don't  —  I  mean, 
please  let  us  give  up  acting  our  farce." 

"  But  have  we  reached  the  third  act  ?  "  she 
said. 

They  were  walking  through  the  garden,  among 
the  crocuses  and  violets  now. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  trying 
to  seem  easy.  "  Perhaps  it  is  a  farce  in  one  act." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  a  farce  at  all,  my  dear  boy," 
she  said  very  gently  and  with  a  sudden  old-world 
gravity  that  was  not  without  its  grace. 

They  reached  the  house.  She  put  her  basket 
down  on  the  oak  table  in  the  wide  hall,  and  faced 
him  in  the  eager  way  that  was  natural  to  her,  and 
that  was  so  youthful. 

"Mr  Melville — Claude,"  she  said, as  she  held 
out  her  hand,  clad  in  a  very  countrified  brown  glove, 
with  a  fan-like  gauntlet,  "  of  all  Jimmy's  friends 
I  think  I  shall  like  you  the  best.  People  who  have 
acted  together  ought  to  be  good  comrades." 

He  took  the  hand.     That  seemed  necessary. 


340  BYE-WAYS 

"  But  I  have  n't  been  acting,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  she  answered,  "  and  I 
have  only  been  on  the  stage  for  a  week ;  while 
you  —  well,  I  suppose  you  have  been  on  it  for  at 
least  two  or  three  years.  I  am  taking  my  farewell 
of  it  this  morning,  and  you  —  ?  " 

The  boy's  face  was  deeply  flushed,  but  he  did 
not  look,  or  feel,  actually  angry. 

"  I  don't  know  about  myself  yet,"  he  said. 

"  Think  it  all  over,"  the  old  lady  exclaimed. 
"  And  now  let  us  have  lunch.  I  am  hungry." 

Jimmy  arrived  that  evening. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Claude  ?  "  he  exclaimed, 
clapping  his  friend  on  the  back. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  Claude  replied.  "  But  1 
almost  begin  to  wish  that  I  were  sixty-four." 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM 


JACK  BURNHAM  was  quite  determined  not  to 
marry  Mrs  Lorton,  and  if  there  was  one  thing  in 
the  world  upon  which  she  had  rigidly  set  her  heart 
it  was  upon  refusing  him.  There  were  several 
things  about  her  which  he  deliberately  disliked.  In 
the  first  place,  she  was  a  widow,  and  he  always  had 
an  uneasy  suspicion  that  widows,  like  dynamite, 
were  mysteriously  dangerous.  Then  her  Christian 
name  was  Harriet,  and  she  never  took  afternoon 
tea.  The  former  of  these  two  facts  indicated, 
according  to  his  ideas,  that  her  parents  were  people 
of  bad  taste,  the  latter  that  she  possessed  notions 
that  were  against  nature.  Also,  she  was  well  in- 
formed, and  knew  it.  This  condition  of  the  mind, 
he  considered,  should  be  the  blessed  birthright  of 
the  male  sex,  and  he  looked  upon  her  as  an  usurper. 
She  did  n't  wear  mourning,  which  implied  that  she 
was  forgetful  —  of  dead  husbands.  Then  —  well, 
that  was  about  all  he  had  against  her,  and  it  was 
quite  enough. 

As  for  her,  the  whole  nature  of  her  protested 
eloquently  against  the  way  he  waxed  his  moustache, 
against  the  colour  of  his  brown  hair,,  and  of  his 


344  BYE-WAYS 

brown  boots,  against  his  lounging  gait,  and  his 
opinion  of  Mr  Gladstone.  He  had  a  certain  arro- 
gance about  him,  when  with  her,  which  arose  in 
truth  from  his  fear  of  her  intellectual  prowess. 
This  led  her  to  dub  him  intolerably  conceited.  She 
desired  to  humble  him,  and  considered  that  she 
could  best  do  so  by  refusing  his  offer  of  marriage. 
But  she  must  first  persuade  him  to  propose.  That 
was  the  difficulty. 

They  were  constantly  meeting  in  London.  You 
always  constantly  meet  your  enemies  in  London. 
And,  when  they  met,  they  always  devoted  a  great 
deal  of  time  to  the  advancement  of  the  tacit  and 
polite  quarrel  between  them.  They  argued  with 
one  another  in  Hyde  Park  on  fine  mornings,  and 
were  really  disgusted  with  one  another  at  dinner 
parties  and  "  At  Homes."  He  thought  her  fast  — 
at  balls ;  and  she  had  once  considered  him  blatant 
—  at  a  Marlborough  House  garden  party.  This 
last  fact,  indeed,  put  the  coping  stone  to  the  feud 
between  them,  for  Mrs  Lorton  expressed  her 
opinion  to  a  friend,  and  Burnham,  of  course,  got  to 
know  of  it.  To  be  thought  blatant  at  Marlborough 
House  was  really  intolerable.  One  might  as  well 
be  pronounced  to  have  had  a  heathen  air  at  Lam- 
beth Palace. 

Distinctly,  Jack  Burnham  and  Harriet  Lorton 
were  acutely  antagonistic. 

Yet,  there  must  surely  have  been  some  strange, 
unknown  link  of  sympathy  between  them,  for  they 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM  345 

both  caught  the  influenza  on  the  same  day  —  it 
was  a  Sunday  morning  —  and  both  permitted  it  to 
develop  into  double  pneumonia. 

After  all,  spar  as  we  may,  are  we  not  all  brothers 
and  sisters  ? 

The  double  pneumonia  ought  to  have  drawn 
them  together ;  but,  as  he  lived  in  Piccadilly  and  she 
in  Queen's  Gate,  and  each  was  thoroughly  self-cen- 
tred —  nothing  produces  egoism  so  certainly  as 
influenza  —  neither  knew  of  the  illness  of  the  other. 

Providence  denied  to  both  that  subtle  joy,  and 
they  got  to  the  mutton  chop  and  chipped  potato 
stage  of  convalescence  in  childlike  ignorance  of 
each  other's  misfortune. 

There  must  certainly  have  been  a  curious  com- 
munity of  mind  between  them,  for  both  their  doc- 
tors ordered  them  to  Margate,  and  they  both  took 
rooms  at  Westgate.  Now  a  similar  taste  in  seaside 
places  is  undoubtedly  an  excellent  foundation  for 
eternal  friendship.  Let  the  world  crumble  in  atoms, 
two  people  who  both  like  Westgate  will  still  find 
something  to  talk  about  amid  the  confusion  occa- 
sioned by  the  dissolution  of  kingdoms. 

Jack  Burnham  arrived  at  the  St  Mildred's  Hotel 
on  a  Thursday,  with  his  man. 

Harriet  Lorton  came  on  the  following  Friday, 
with  her  maid. 

Neither  had  any  notion  of  the  other's  proceedings 
until  they  met  back  to  back,  as-  you  shall  presently 
hear. 


346  BYE-WAYS 


II 

IN  ordinary  circumstances  of  health  and  vigour, 
Burnham  and  Mrs  Lorton  possessed  dispositions 
of  quite  singular  vivacity,  looked  upon  life  as  a 
fairly  good,  if  rather  practical  joke,  and  were  fully 
disposed  to  consider  happiness  their  metier.  Being 
modern,  they  sometimes  concealed  their  original 
gaiety,  as  if  it  were  original  sin,  and  pretended  to 
a  cruel  cynicism ;  yet  at  heart,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, they  were  as  lively  as  poor  children  playing 
in  the  street.  But  when  they  went  to  Westgate, 
influenza  had  had  its  fill  of  them,  and  the  infinite 
pathos  of  the  world,  and  of  all  that  is  therein, 
appealed  to  them  with  a  seizing  vitality.  Burnham, 
on  the  Thursday,  was  moved  to  tears  at  Birching- 
ton  Station  by  the  sight  of  a  mother  and  eleven 
children  missing  the  last  train  to  Margate.  Harriet 
Lorton,  on  the  following  Friday,  had  hysterics  at 
Victoria,  when  she  perceived  a  young  lady  drop  a 
cage  containing  a  grey  parrot,  and  smash  the  bird's 
china  bath  upon  the  platform.  The  fact  that  the 
parrot  had  been  actually  taking  its  bath  at  the 
moment,  and  was  left  by  the  misfortune  in  much 
confusion  and  no  water,  struck  her  so  poignantly 
as  nearly  to  break  her  heart.  She  wept  in  a  first- 
class  carriage  all  the  way  down,  and  arrived  at 
Westgate,  towards  ten  o'clock,  in  a  state  of  com- 
plete collapse. 


THE  TEE-TO-TUM  347 

Mr  Burnham  was  in  bed  drinking  a  cup  of 
soup  at  this  time.  He  heard  the  luggage  being 
carried  up,  but  did  not  suspect  whose  it  was. 
Nevertheless,  the  ravages  of  disease  led  him  to 
consider  the  slight  noise  and  bustle  a  personal 
insult,  and  he  lay  awake  most  of  the  night  brooding 
upon  the  wrongs  of  which  he,  erroneously,  believed 
himself  to  be  the  victim. 

,  It  was  on  the  next  morning  that  the  two  invalids 
met  back  to  back  in  a  shelter  with  glass  partitions 
upon  the  lawn. 

Mrs  Lorton,  smothered  in  wraps,  had  taken  up 
her  position  on  the  bench  that  faces  Westgate 
without  noticing  a  bowed  and  ulstered  figure,  shod 
in  brown  boots,  sitting  in  a  haggard  posture  on  the 
reciprocal  bench  that  faces  the  sea.  Nobody  was 
about,  for  it  was  not  the  season,  and  Mrs  Lorton 
began  slowly  to  weep  on  account  of  the  loneliness. 
It  struck  her  disordered  fancy  as  so  personal. 
Creation  was  sending  her  to  Coventry.  At  her 
back  the  tears  ran  over  Burnham's  handsome  coun- 
tenance. He  was  staring  at  the  sea,  and  thinking 
of  all  the  people  who  had  been  drowned  in  water 
since  the  days  of  the  Deluge.  He  wondered  how 
many  there  were,  and  cried  copiously,  considering 
himself  absolutely  alone  and  free  to  give  vent  to  his 
feelings,  which  struck  him  as  splendidly  human. 

When  two  people  weep  together  one  of  them 
usually  weeps  louder  than  the  other,  and,  on  this 
occasion,  Burnham  made  the  most  noise.  He 


348  BYE-WAYS 

became,  in  fact,  so  uproariously  solicitous  about 
the  drowned  men  and  women  whom  he  had  never 
known  that  Mrs  Lorton  gradually  was  made  aware 
of  the  presence  of  another  mourner  who  was  not 
a  mute.  She  turned  round  and  beheld  a  back  con- 
vulsed with  emotion.  Its  grief  went  straight  to 
her  heart,  and,  casting  her  own  sorrow  and  her 
sense  of  etiquette  to  the  wind  —  which  blew 
bracingly  from  the  north-east  —  she  tapped  upon 
the  glass  screen  that  bisected  the  shelter. 

Burnham  took  no  notice.  He  was  too  deeply 
involved  in  grief.  So  Mrs  Lorton  knocked  again, 
with  all  the  vigour  that  incipient  convalescence 
gave  to  her.  This  time  Burnham  was  startled,  and 
turned  a  hollow  face  upon  her.  They  stared  at 
each  other  through  the  intervening  glass  for  a 
moment  in  wild  surprise,  the  tears  congealing  upon 
their  cheeks. 

Beyond  Burnham  Mrs  Lorton  saw  the  whirling 
white  foam  of  the  sea.  Beyond  Mrs  Lorton 
Burnham  saw  the  neat  villas  of  Westgate.  It 
struck  them  both  as  a  tremendous  moment,  and 
they  trembled. 

Remember  that  they  were  very  weak. 

At  last  he,  conceiving  naturally  that  she  had 
recognised  and  desired  to  summon  him,  walked 
slowly  round  to  her  side  of  the  shelter,  and  held 
out  to  her  a  wavering  hand. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  The  last 
person  I  —  " 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM  349 

"  You  !  "  said  Mrs  Lorton.  "  How  astonish- 
ing !  What  on  earth  —  " 

He  seized  the  opening  she  gave  him  with  all  the 
ardour  of  the  whole-souled  influenza  patient. 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  he  said  with  a  deep  pathos, 
"  very,  very  ill.  My  symptoms  were  most  extra- 
ordinary." 

He  sank  down  heavily  at  her  side,  and  continued, 

"  I  doubt  if  any  one  has  endured  such  agony 
before.  It  began  on  a  Sunday  with  —  " 

"  So  did  mine,"  Mrs  Lorton  interrupted  with 
some  show  of  determination.  "  You  cannot  con- 
ceive what  it  was  like.  I  had  pains  in  every  limb, 
every  limb  positively.  The  doctor  —  " 

"  Of  course  I  went  straight  to  bed,"  he  re- 
marked with  firmness.  "  I  knew  at  once  what 
was  wrong.  But  mine  was  no  ordinary  case. 
Talk  of  thumbscrews  !  Why  —  " 

"  For  nights  I  tossed  in  agony,"  she  went  on 
with  a  poignant  self-pity,  so  much  engrossed  that 
she  never  noticed  the  brown  boots  which  on  other 
occasions  had  so  deeply  offended  her.  "  Morphia 
and  eucalyptus  were  no  —  " 

"  He  said  it  was  pneumonia,  double  pneu- 
monia," Burnham  concluded  emphatically.  "  How 
I  came  through  it  I  shall  never  know."  His 
smile  at  this  point  was  wan,  and  seemed  to 
deprecate  existence.  "  I  suppose  there  is  stil] 
some  work  for  me  to  do.  At  the  same  time, 
I  —  " 


350  BYE-WAYS 

"  Mine  was  also  double  !  "  Mrs  Lorton  said  witl 
distinct  tartness,  condemning  privately  his  arro- 
gance, and  noticing  the  boots  with  a  strange  feeling 
of  sudden  and  unutterable  despair. 

"  It  is  all  so  much  worse  for  a  woman,"  she 
added  vaguely,  with  some  idea  of  out-doing  him, 
such  as  she  had  felt  once  or  twice  at  dinner  parties, 
when  her  epigrams  had  been  smarter  than  his. 

"  The  strong  possess  a  greater  capacity  for  suffer- 
ing than  the  weak,"  Burnham  retorted.  "  Medical 
science  tells  us  that  —  " 

"  Please  spare  me  the  revelations  of  the  dissect- 
ing-room," she  cried  bitterly ;  "  I  am  in  no  condi- 
tion to  bear  them." 

She  glanced  at  him  with  pathetic  eyes,  and 
added,  "  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  Margate." 

u  I  ought  to  have  gone  there  too,"  he  said. 

"  Really,  you  make  the  conversation  sound  like 
one  of  Maeterlinck's  plays,"  she  rejoined.  "  Do  be 
more  original." 

The  reproach  cut  him  to  the  heart.  He  never 
knew  why,  but  he  felt  so  much  injured  that  he 
with  great  difficulty  restrained  his  tears. 

"  Women  can  be  very  brutal,"  he  said  moodily, 
biting  his  lips,  and  wondering  how  many  authors 
it  was  necessary  to  read  in  order  never  to  be  at  a 
disadvantage  with  a  clever  woman. 

Mrs  Lorton  was  conscious  that  she  had  hurt 
him,  and  instead  of  being  her  nice,  natural  self  and 
glorying  in  the  fact,  she  experienced  a  sense  of 


THE  TEE-TO-TUM  351 

profound  pity  that  gave  her  quite  a  tightened 
feeling  about  the  left  side.  However,  she  only 
said,  u  Men  can  be  very  selfish  "  —  a  generality 
that  many  people  consider  as  convincing  as  a 
bomb  —  and  got  up  to  go. 

"  I  am  staying  at  the  St  Mildred's,"  she  re- 
marked.  "  It  is  the  dull  season,  so  I  am  the  only 
person  there  at  present." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Burnham  said,  also  getting 
upon  his  feet,  "  I  am  there  too.  My  number  is  12 
and  I  have  a  private  sitting-room.  I  do  not  feel 
up  to  the  coffee-room  yet." 

Mrs  Lorton  turned  as  pale  as  ashes  with  vexa- 
tion. She  had  no  private  sitting-room,  and  had 
ordered  dinner  in  the  coffee-room  for  that  very 
evening. 

She  felt  herself  at  a  disadvantage  as  they  walked 
in  a  gloomy  silence  towards  the  beach. 


Ill 

THREE  days  had  passed  away,  and  Jack  Burnham 
had  found  that  he  was,  in  his  own  phrase,  "  up  to 
the  coffee-room  "  after  all.  In  consequence,  Mrs 
Lorton  and  he  dined  there  every  evening  at  sepa- 
rate tables.  A  sense  of  rivalry  —  and  there  is  no 
rivalry  more  keen  than  that  between  contesting 
invalids  —  prevented  both  of  them  from  eating  as 
much  as  they  would  have  liked.  When  the  widow 


352  BYE-WAYS 

refused  a  course,  Burnham  shook  his  head  at  it 
wearily,  and  they  rose  from  their  meals  in  a  state 
of  passionate  hunger,  which  they  solaced  with  cap- 
tain's biscuits  in  the  seclusion  of  their  bedrooms. 
Since  they  had  Westgate  almost  to  themselves, 
and  the  weather  was  becoming  bright  and  warm, 
they  were  much  out  of  doors ;  but  their  profound 
depression  still  continued,  and  they  were  as  morbid 
human  beings  as  Max  Nordau  could  have  desired 
to  meet  with  when  he  was  seeking  for  specimens 
of  degeneration. 

Their  continual  greedy  anxiety  to  narrate  the 
details  of  their  physical  and  mental  sensations  drove 
them  to  seek  one  another's  company,  and  soon  it 
became  an  understood  thing  that  they  should  sit 
together  on  the  lawn  or  in  the  winter  garden  dur- 
ing the  morning,  and  stroll  feebly  in  the  direction 
of  Margate  during  the  breezy  afternoon. 

These  times  were  times  of  battle,  of  a  struggle 
for  supremacy  in  symptoms  that  led  to  much  heart 
searching  and  to  infinite  exaggeration.  Mrs  Lor- 
ton,  being  a  woman,  generally  got  the  best  of  it, 
and  Burnham  entered  the  hotel  at  tea-time  with 
set  teeth,  and  an  appalling  sense  of  injustice  and  of 
failure  in  his  breast.  One  night  at  dinner,  deter- 
mined to  conquer  or  to  die,  he  refused  everything 
but  soup ;  and  noted,  with  a  grim  satisfaction,  that 
Mrs  Lorton  could  hardly  contain  her  chagrin  at 
having  inadvertently  devoured  a  cutlet  and  a  spoon- 
ful of  jelly.  Indeed,  her  temper  was  so  much 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM  353 

upset  by  this  occurrence  that  she  went  straight  to 
bed  on  leaving  the  coffee-room,  and  sent  down  a 
message  the  next  morning  to  say  that  she  was  far 
too  ill  to  venture  out. 

Burnham,  therefore,  sat  in  the  shelter  alone, 
cursing  the  craft  of  woman.  In  the  intervals  be- 
tween the  cursings  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
loneliness  that  seemed  to  be  in  the  atmosphere. 
It  hovered  with  the  seagulls  above  the  sprightly 
waves,  swept  over  the  lawn  hand  in  hand  with  the 
wind,  basked  in  the  sunshine,  and  companioned 
him  closely  upon  the  esplanade  as  he  walked  home 
to  lunch.  He  was  puzzled  by  it. 

At  lunch-time  Mrs  Lorton  was  still  confined  to 
bed,  so  her  maid  announced.  Burnham  promptly 
began  to  wonder  whether  she  was  going  to  die. 
He  strolled  towards  Margate  wondering,  and  found 
himself  presently  in  the  sunset,  gazing  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  at  the  silhouette  of  Margate  Pier,  and, 
mentally,  placing  a  reverent  tribute  of  flowers  from 
Covent  Garden  upon  her  early  grave  in  Brompton 
Cemetery. 

He  also  found  himself,  later,  dropping  a  tear  at 
the  thought  of  his  own  death,  for  of  course  with 
his  weak  health  he  could  not  hope  to  outlive  any- 
body for  very  long.  Mrs  Lorton's  absence  at 
dinner  struck  him  as  more  pathetic  than  all  the 
misery  of  the  travailing  universe,  until  he  remem- 
bered that  at  last  he  could  gratify  his  appetite,  and 
«ven  accept  two  entrees  at  the  hands  of  the  waiter. 
23 


354  BYE-WAYS 

Life,  if  it  is  full  of  sorrows,  is  also  full  of  con- 
solations. 

He  ate   steadily  for  a  couple  of  hours,  pitying 
himself  all  the  time. 

Next  day  Mrs  Lorton  re-appeared  in  a  very  bad 
temper.  Her  seclusion,  although  it  had  enabled 
her  to  score  several  points  off  her  rival,  had  been 
in  other  respects  wearisome  and  vexatious.  She 
barely  nodded  to  Burnham,  and  went  out  towards 
the  shelter  alone.  He  followed  furtively,  longing, 
as  usual,  for  condolence,  and  presently  saw  her 
seat  herself  facing  the  sea.  The  strained  relations 
between  them  seemed  to  forbid  his  placing  himself 
at  her  side.  The  back-to-back  posture  would  be 
more  illustrative  of  the  exact  position  of  affairs, 
and  Burnham's  nicety  and  accuracy  of  mind  in- 
duced him  accordingly  to  face  Westgate.  Their 
positions  of  the  first  day  were  thus  reversed.  She 
looked  at  the  sea;  he  stared  at  the  villas.  Strange 
turmoil  of  life,  in  which  we  never  know  which 
way  we  shall  be  facing  next !  It  struck  Burnham 
suddenly,  and  so  forcibly,  a  propos  of  his  and  Mrs 
Lorton's  reversal,  that  the  ready  tears  sprang  to 
his  eyes.  How  would  it  all  end  ?  Man  spins  about 
like  a  tee-to-tum,  bowing  to  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass. The  time  comes  when  the  tee-to-tum  runs 
down  —  and  what  then  ?  Burnham  was  certainly 
run  down.  That  must  be  his  excuse  for  what  he 
did.  He  glanced  behind  him  through  the  glass 
screen,  and  saw  by  the  motion  of  Mrs  Lorton's  back 


THE   TEE-TO-TUM  355 

that  she  was  sobbing.  In  truth,  the  sight  of  the 
dancing  waves  had  set  her  thinking  of  all  the  poor 
people  who  have  been  drowned  in  water  since  the 
beginning  of  things.  Poor  dead  folk !  She  was 
trembling  with  emotion,  and  still  wept  mechani- 
cally when  she  found  Mr  Burnham  on  her  side  of 
the  shelter  proposing  to  her  with  all  his  might  and 
main.  He  was  asking  her  to  comfort  him,  to  be 
a  true  woman  and  shield  him  with  her  strength, 
to  support  his  tottering  footsteps  along  the  rugged 
ways  of  life,  to  dry  his  tears  and  stay  the  agonies 
of  his  shaken  soul. 

"Your  health  will  help  my  weakness,"  he  said. 
"  Your  vigour  will  teach  me  to  be  strong." 

It  was  a  strange  proposal,  and  she  began  to 
defend  herself  from  his  imputations,  stating  her 
maladies,  marshalling  her  symptoms  of  decay  in  an 
imposing  procession. 

But  it  was  no  good.  He  had  taken  her  un- 
awares and  got  the  start  of  her.  She  felt  it,  and 
his  determined  weakness  obtained  a  power  over 
her  which  she  could  never  afterwards  explain. 

His  influenza  triumphed,  for  she  forgot  her  reso- 
lution. 

A   wave    of   morbid    pity   for   him   swept    over    i 
the  woman  in  her.      If  he  was  disorganised  now, 
what    would     be    his    condition    if    she    refused 
him  ? 

"  Have  I  the  right,"  she  asked  herself,  "  to  de- 
vote a  fellow-creature  to  everlasting  misery  ?  " 


356  BYE-WAYS 

Her  influenza  told  her  plainly  that  she  had  not. 

People  say  that  the  marriage  will  really  come  off. 

Jack  Burnham  announced  it  everywhere  before 
Mrs  Lorton  got  thoroughly  well,  and  Mrs  Lorton 
told  everybody  while  Jack  Burnham  was  still  what 
his  friends  called  "  awfully  dicky." 

One  can  but  hope  that  their  married  life  will  be 
passed  on  the  same  side  of  the  shelter.  If  he 
persists  in  facing  the  sea,  and  she  in  staring  at  the 
villas  —  well,  they  will  live  most  of  Ibsen's  plays  ! 

But  at  least  they  will  be  modern. 

And  so  the  tee-to-tum,  thought  of  pathetically 
by  Burnham  on  a  memorable  occasion,  spins  round, 
and  the  sea  and  the  villas  are  the  two  aspects  of 
life. 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAaUTY 


A    000  131  190     1 


